Sick
by PsychoticSushi
Summary: Henry's sent to see a psychiatrist after the events of SH4. Dr. Roberts listens to his talk about dreams and apartments locking him in from the inside, assuming he's "sick", scarred from some sort of trauma. Until she seems to grow "sick" herself.
1. PTSD

**If you've visited this story before, the earlier chapters have been edited since they were first published - so forgive any inconsistencies, as they're being constantly re-edited. I would also like to provide a small disclaimer; none of the disorders referenced to in this work are referenced in order to be ridiculed or to pretend I know what it is like to have them (I do, however, suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder in the same manner as the OCD patient frequently referenced. That much I do have experience on, and he is based on_ my own experiences_ to prevent alienating those who may suffer from it _differently_).**

**Thank you for reading.**

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><p>The alarm blared; another dreamless night's sleep. A petite hand emerged from beneath a mass of dark curls splayed about the edge of the pillow, fumbling blindly about the dimly-lit area before practically punching the alarm clock. The equally-petite woman grimaced a little at the unpleasant sound – both the clock itself and its tumble toward the floor.<p>

_One could argue that to own a clock is, in itself, a form of masochism._

She yawned and stretched, sitting up and waiting for her eyes to adjust before mustering up the motivation to fumble for the lamp next. Upon turning it on, she hissed in a breath at how bright everything suddenly became. Her bare feet shuffled haphazardly toward the bathroom, gait resembling Frankenstein's monster as if she had forgotten in her slumber how to walk – tripping on a few articles of strewn clothes.

Despite the rough start, she managed to shower, fix coffee, get dressed, and leave her apartment relatively unscathed. Of course, it wasn't until she was starting her car that she realized she'd left her files on the kitchen counter. "Shit," she muttered under her breath, yanking the car keys out of the ignition; she didn't need her car getting stolen while she was gone, Mondays at work were bad enough as it was. Her poor attempt at a ponytail was evidence of that, a dismayed yelp leaving semi-chapped lips as she quickly tried again to tame the offensive locks – her keys clenched between her teeth in a vice-like grip that would surely make her dentist cringe if he knew. Mishap corrected, it took every bit of self-control she had to not speed all the way to her office building. She assured herself that not only was this potentially saving lives _and_ money for another speeding ticket, but it was inevitably saving her the extra twenty minutes it would take if she _had_ sped and spilled piping-hot coffee all over herself.

Kate frowned as she grabbed her bag and coffee, looking up at the sky. "Was rain in the forecast? Of course, that might be givin' Channel Five's weather man too much credit," she muttered to herself.

"Mornin', Miss Roberts," Norm, the security guard, greeted in his usual gruff manner; gruff, but well-meaning. His thoughts were as elusive as his actual first name.

" – Huh? Yeah. I mean, good morning," she said somewhat cheerfully. Even if the distracted tone had been lacking in her response, Kate's body language – walking as fast as her heels would allow while shifting her bag from one arm to another, still attempting in vain to reconcile with her dark, thick ponytail – probably tipped everybody in the lobby off to the fact that she was most definitely hauling some serious ass – but _professional_ ass. Dutiful employees within the South Ashfield Health Resources Complex usually weren't in any kind of hurry – on time was fifteen minutes early here, and they generally allowed time in their commute for that.

_Generally_, so did Katherine Roberts.

This was most certainly one of those exceptional days that began even more sluggish than they ended. Kate contemplated taking her shoes off while in the elevator to enhance her semi-frantic speed, but before she could, it arrived onto her floor – the twenty-fourth floor, to be exact. How she spent twenty-three of those bouncing on her heels like an anxious child as opposed to more productive pursuits, such as actually taking her shoes off or even smoothing her blouse… Well, one glance at her apartment floor would leave little need for explanation.

And she was off again.

She dug for her key-card, struggled with the door for a few moments, sped past the receptionist whose name she vaguely recalled began with an M, and had just sat down in her chair with an incredibly heavy exhale when her phone rang. "Dr. Roberts," she answered a little breathlessly, taking out the seemingly endless stack of files she'd taken home with her last night to ponder over. Actually, pore over and occasionally stare at blankly while wondering if anyone would care if she shredded them was more accurate. Not that she didn't truly treasure her job, of course, but even so… It had been one of those brick-wall sort of nights. She'd barely accomplished anything.

"_**You went by me so fast, I forgot to mention –"**_

"You can just come in my office, you know," she replied simply, having trouble keeping her cord phone on the crook of her neck while sorting through the various loose items in her bag.

"_**Y-Yes ma'am,"**_ the young receptionist said quickly, hanging up. Within five seconds, there was knocking on her door.

"Yeah, come in," she said much more warmly now that her keys had been tucked away and pager located, rolling her eyes briefly at how hesitant the temporary receptionists always were when coming in to work in Denise's stead. She absently wondered where Denise _was_ exactly, then recalled with an embarrassed flush along her neck that her father was in the hospital. She attempted to push away the social guilt of forgetting something so integral to her trusted receptionist's life as her temp rattled off the schedule she'd put together in Kate's absence – no doubt taking great care to confirm, and then confirm again, for the sake of her payroll.

"What I was going to tell you was that Mr. Sheffield, Mrs. Caldwell, Ms. Johnson, and Mr. and Mrs. Beckett all canceled today. The Becketts rescheduled to next Tuesday, no word yet on reschedules from Caldwell and Johnson, and Sheffield says he doesn't know when he'll be back due to some health problems his sister's having. And, uh... Along with Mr. Stevenson moving his session up to nine thirty, which it seems you _will_ be on time for, you have a new patient filling in your eleven o'clock slot," she informed Kate with a slight reluctance, as if her entire schedule had been a trick question as opposed to simple information.

She offered a smile of mild assurance from behind her desk, having to tilt her head somewhat to properly assess the statuesque temp; although she herself was only barely breaching the end of her twenties, no doubt putting her at a mere several years older than this temporary assistant, it only added to the authority her position entitled her to here. Kate knew it couldn't be from her personality. Her mentor throughout her dissertation – the product of such thorough research, and her professor's steady guidance, hung proudly on the wall to her left – had made note that her demeanor aided her early success. Although highly mature, and intelligent to boot, there was a temperament about her that suggested a free spirit; it was somewhat deceptive, as she always seemed scatterbrained or good-humored, even unprofessional in private – but a shrewd mind remained just beneath the mannerisms. It was never preventative of her getting her job done efficiently, and the culmination of those traits had ensured her internship produced much more than impressive notations on a resume.

Kate's brows furrowed as her attention remained sharply focused on the task at hand, always intrigued by the prospect of a heavier workload – truly masochistic, indeed. "New patient, huh? Did you get their paperwork in yet?"

The young woman shook her head, brown eyes wide as if she'd made a life-threatening mistake, her sandy blonde bun – much more tame than Roberts' own ponytail, she noticed with brief envy – swishing back and forth at lightning speed. "No ma'am, they haven't filled any out yet."

"They?"

"His mother's the one who called and made the appointment. From the sounds of it, he's a grown man, but I assume she'll be here today. ... Sounded kind of... protective?" she explained in a lowered tone, almost as if she was afraid the mother were in the same room. With mild nostalgia, Kate took note that Denise would have called him a mother's boy without hesitation – not to mention her coffee was a _vast_ improvement on the cup held tightly between her freckled hands.

"You're probably right. Thank you, er…"

"Melissa."

"Right. I – I knew that. My... coffee just hasn't kicked in yet."

Melissa smiled. "No offense, Dr. Roberts, but stick to psychology. You're so terrible at lying, it probably makes you look more sincere."

Kate chuckled, but they both frowned when they heard a rather nasal male voice call out from the other room. "Hello? Anyone here?"

"That's my cue. Let him in, Melissa."

She nodded and power-walked out of the room, going to aid the needy Nine-Thirty, Mr. Stevenson – he insisted she call him Bob. Kate had diagnosed him with a narcissistic personality disorder, along with slight OCD. And he was _unbelievably_ annoying, off the record. He walked in with his usual confident stride, smiling slightly. "Good morning, Doctor Katherine Roberts."

She resisted the urge to sigh. He insisted on calling her by her full name. She wasn't sure if that was part of his obsessive-compulsive personality, or if he just wanted to piss her off. "Morning, Bob. I'd like to start today off with a question. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," he replied cheerfully, already a far cry from the whiny man that had first arrived, sitting down on her couch with a content sigh. She mainly had that couch there for her own benefit – sometimes she would stay overnight and sleep in the office if she had a lot of paperwork and prescriptions to fill out – although many a patient preferred the couch to the multiple chairs in the room. Most, however, preferred to lay on their back and stare at the ceiling, not sit in utter contentment with a ram-rod posture.

Her office was moderately-sized, with a neutral color scheme. The furniture was black, complete with a desk in the center of the room (at which she was currently sitting), four filing cabinets (two miniature ones beside her desk, one full-length on each wall near her), two arm chairs further towards the door, a couch against the wall to the right of the door, and a wheelie chair she was sitting in at the moment. Depending on who the patient was and where they sat, sometimes she would abandon her desk and wheel her chair further into the room, pen and pad in her lap.

With Bob, however, she almost felt _safer_ behind the desk.

"Bob, do you mind me asking _why_ you call me by my full title?" she asked carefully. Bob was a tricky one. Any little thing could set him off. Speaking of which, she quickly shifted her pencils back to the way he liked them: three to each side of the desk, erasers pointing towards the door.

"Because by saying your full name, I've made an odd number – twenty-one. If you count the spaces and the period after the abbreviation of your title, that is. Twenty-one is divisible by odd numbers three and seven. And two plus one equals three. And you _know_ how I feel about the number three," he explained as if he had done so a thousand times, a slight shiver quite obviously running through him.

Kate nodded, trying not to grimace. "Yeah, I do. Sounds like you've given this a lotta thought. Now onto the usual, Bob: how's your medication treatin' ya?"

"Fine."

After her typical Q-and-A with him, she concluded with the "So, how have things been since I last saw you?"

This question, when asked to Bob, pretty much meant her talking was over. The rest of her time was spent nodding at the right places, listening for any key words or inflection that would alert her to any prominent symptoms she wanted him avoiding, etcetera.

Bob Stevenson was most definitely a talker. In fact, she wrote "Talker" in big block letters on her notepad, underlining it and drawing a stick figure of Kate and the fifty other things she'd rather be doing while he talked about things like – and this is a direct quote – "Last week, once I was waiting in his office, I spent an hour counting the amount of cotton wads in my physician's jar. And eventually he let me take them out and sort them onto the counter to get a better figure. I went for the number of sticks they press down on your tongue with – and, Doctor Katherine Roberts, can you believe it? _All_ odd numbers! I say _all_ because I couldn't _just_ leave it at two objects, so I looked for a third and…"

Needless to say, she was ready for _any_ new patient to walk through her door after having to sit through a _riveting_ account of _every waking moment_ of his day. Kate was surprised when Melissa let them in; it had only been three minutes since Bob had left. _They must've arrived while he was busy chewing my ear off... Wouldn't be the first time he'd ran over his session's time slot._

Melissa smiled at her with a soft clear of the throat to ensure her attention was garnered. The temp was no doubt trying to make it less obvious as she scoped out the man of the hour, a rookie's mistake; he was accompanied by who Kate could only assume was his mother. They had both held out hope the male was young, although apparently the mother had left little room for imagination on the phone from her tone.

_That has __**gotta**__ be embarrassing, _Kate mused. It was obvious he was uncomfortable. _Extremely_ uncomfortable. He had his mother's green eyes, but she had gray hair, so Kate wasn't sure if that was where he had gotten his dark brown hair or not. Whether there was a father in the picture or not, the matriarch was easily the authority figure in his life – his body language revealed as much.

She smiled at them, fixing her pencils back the way she normally had them. She watched the man carefully as she did so – no OCD that she could see, although it manifested in numerous forms. This apparently unnerved him a little. Her staring, that is. It was becoming apparent that very little _failed_ to unnerve him – anxiety, perhaps? It would explain his demeanor, although it was always difficult to tell from a first meeting as they rarely divulged much of anything relevant to her; psychiatrists still bore their stigmas.

He shifted uncomfortably in the arm chair he'd slowly lowered into. His mother's gaze flitted about the room before settling on the woman behind the desk, no doubt trying to gauge her credibility – Kate was all too familiar with the process. "Good morning," she offered cheerfully, standing up to shake the mother's hand; it was much warmer than her gaze, although Roberts knew well enough she was simply doing a mother's job – albeit several years past usual necessity.

"I'm Doctor Katherine Roberts," she continued while moving to shake the man's. "But you can call me Kate. Or Doctor Roberts, or Doc – anything you might prefer, really, as long as it isn't offensive."

She could feel the tension oozing in the room. The woman smiled at her in reply, almost as empathetic as her own earlier. It practically screamed "You tried". "Hello, Doctor. Roberts. I'm Amy Townshend, and I'm here on behalf of my son, Henry."

Her gaze flitted from the mother to the son before nodding. "Alright. What seems to be the problem?" she asked, taking the cap off her pen as she spoke – her sole focus otherwise being the pair before her.

The tension rose even further as Amy looked at her hands briefly. The worry was written on her face. "My son... There was an incident a few months ago. In his old apartment."

"What kind of incident?" Kate asked. She hated to demand details so suddenly, but she knew from experience that if she didn't, they wouldn't get anywhere in this session. The woman glanced at her hands again, then at Henry. Her son was currently scouring every detail around her office from his viewpoint in the chair to her far left. More accurately, he was searching for _anything_ to keep his attention so he could forget about where he was at the moment.

Or perhaps tune out details of where he had been.

"I'm not all too sure, really. He won't tell me much. But I _do_ know it's upset him greatly. He's troubled all the time, even more quiet than before. And I haven't seen him with a girl – or much of anyone for that matter – in almost a _year_! It isn't healthy," she concluded with a sagely nod.

Kate tried not to smile as a blush almost immediately surged up to Henry's face. "Well, Mrs. Townshend, I understand your concern… But I'm not a relationship therapist. I'm a psychiatrist. Do you mind me asking what the _real_ issue is here?"

Amy Townshend hesitated before answering. "... Henry needs _medical_ help. I think the... _Incident_... left him damaged. … Emotionally. I've done my best to fix it, but I'm beginning to think it's beyond me."

Kate nodded, focus finally shifting toward her son – whom she had continued to glance at throughout the exchange between the two women, to ensure he knew he was more than just subject matter. "Henry, how old are you?"

"He's twenty-eight."

"... Ah. Henry, are you suffering from anything unusual physically?"

"Well, sometimes, he..." Mrs. Townshend trailed off as Kate held up a hand, a brief shake of the head soon following.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Townshend, but I was asking your son. Actually... Would you mind waiting outside while I talk to Henry? Y'know, one-on-one?"

Henry's mom frowned at that, but nodded nonetheless. At the end of the day, she had approached her offices for a reason, and would have to enlist her faith in "the good doctor".

"Whatever it takes."

Kate couldn't stifle a smile as Melissa almost immediately asked Mrs. Townshend if she wanted something to eat or drink, supposing the temp was more suitable than the one before her, then focused her attention fully onto Henry once more. He had been looking at her, observing her as he had everything else in her office space thus far, but his gaze immediately returned to the hands folded in his lap as her own hazel eyes settled on his frame.

"Can I just call you Henry?"

He shrugged.

_Shit. This'll take some time..._ "Alrighty then. Lemme ask _you_ this time. How old are you, Henry?"

"... Twenty-eight."

"Right. So. Why does your mother think you need to be here in my office?" she asked pleasantly, tucking her pen behind her ear. It was obvious writing down whatever he said would just make him even more nervous, judging by the constant shift of his attention toward the pad with every scratch of the pen. He seemed to refuse to make eye contact with her regardless, because his eyes remained on his hands and the floor as he spoke. She knew he was still keeping an eye on her through his peripherals, though. He wasn't the first patient to do so. Hell, she had patients she'd been treating for _months_ who still held their reservations.

"... She thinks I'm _going_ crazy. Not that she'd say that, of course, but... I know that's what it is. She thinks I'm going crazy. You probably would, too, if..."

She frowned when he didn't finish his sentence. "Henry, you can tell me. Nothing you say will leave this office, and I promise not to judge you except for on a professional level. And even then, it'll only be to diagnose you and get you the medication you _might_ need to help you. Okay?"

The soothing tone seemed to assure him to a degree; his shoulders relaxed a little, and he stopped fidgeting. "... I'm not exactly sure where I should start."

"How about you start by telling me about this 'Incident' your mom mentioned?" she prompted, sipping some of her coffee before making a face. On top of already being way below sub-par, it was practically frozen at this point.

Henry sighed a little, and there was the slightest hitch in the exhale – as if he were reluctant to even recollect _any_ of it, lest it come back tenfold. "... A couple years ago, I moved into this apartment over at South Ashfield Heights. Room 302. And earlier this year... I was trapped inside it. I was locked in. From... From the inside."

She tried to keep her expression neutral, but inwardly she was conjuring up plenty of possibilities as to what could be wrong with him; he was making a claim that was certainly an oddity, but not entirely surprising. Kate had heard plenty of tales in which the patient had utterly blacked out before or even after the incident, unable to recall ever doing it themselves – thus shifting the blame onto a third party. "Locked from the inside? Why would you do that?"

That got the reaction she was hoping for – an actual one, as opposed to resignation toward these undoubtedly traumatic events he had yet to divulge. Henry finally looked at her directly, and for a split second, his tone was pretty damn defensive compared to how neutral it had been so far. "It wasn't me. It was Wa – ... Someone else."

"Whose name were you about to say just then?"

"... It was Walter Sullivan," he admitted with a sigh. His hesitation to mention that name was now completely understandable. She was unsure how to approach this subject; even Kate, hardly conscious long enough to watch the nightly news, knew about Walter Sullivan – or at least _of_ Walter Sullivan. Mainly from her mother in her years at home pre-graduate school, as she constantly insisted she could find more than enough material for Kate should she change the focus of her thesis to the Sullivan Murders.

"... Henry, Walter Sullivan's been dead for years now. What makes you think it was him?"

"I saw him."

"So… You mean to say you saw the _ghost_ of Walter Sullivan."

He shrugged, looking at the ground again. "You could say that."

She resisted the urge to sigh heavily. He had been opening up a little for a moment there, but now he was turning back inward, shutting more and more tightly with each question.

"Could you describe him to me?" she asked, making him glance back up at her again.

"... Better than I'd like."

She waved a hand at him. "Go ahead, whenever you're ready."

It took a few minutes, but he eventually managed to summarize what he could easily recall in his mind. "... Pretty tall. Dark blonde hair, it was long and sort of stringy. ... Green eyes, I think. But one was different from the other. His coat... Long. Usually blood-spotted. And he..." he trailed off, and Kate had noticed the slight quiver as it returned to his voice. She also noticed he was blinking quickly; it was difficult to say whether he was warding off tears, the mental image, or a bit of both.

"That's good for now, Henry. You did excellent. … Can I ask you something that might upset you?"

"I expected that."

"Do _you_ think what you saw was real?" she asked carefully. "That's the important thing, after all."

He was quiet for so long that she almost prepared to rephrase the question, under the assumption he was ignoring her. It was hard to tell, after all, when he wasn't looking at her. Finally, he replied quietly, "I'm... I'm not entirely sure anymore. But... I _know_ the dreams are."

"Dreams?"

He nodded. "Dreams. It's really why I'm here. I've been having these... Well, _dreams_ lately. But they're not... Like the ones he gave me. These... Are different. There's always fog. And..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

Kate nodded. "Henry, I think I might have a solution." He didn't answer, so she continued. "I think being trapped in your apartment, by whatever means, has traumatized you somewhat." That seemed to strike him as funny, because he suddenly smirked before returning to his normal expression: painfully neutral. In retrospect, she supposed it was a quintessential case of stating-the-obvious on her part.

"... I think you might have a slight case of PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Your foggy dreams might be a result of you repressing your memories, leaving much of it unclear or vague… There may even be some _other_ underlying issue. But for now, I'm gonna put you on some medication – don't worry, it's very light. A bit stronger than the generic stuff you find in your local pharmacy. Basically, they'll help you sleep longer, and minimize the chance of you vividly remembering those dreams – or the chance of those dreams taking a nightmarish turn; those circles under your eyes tell me you haven't been doing much sleeping lately. And I want you seeing me _every other day _for a couple more sessions. Be prepared for some questions you really don't wanna answer, because I'm not doing my job unless it's challenging for you, too. With me so far?"

He nodded, taking the prescription she'd filled out while she was talking. "Mostly, yes. But... I'm not repressing memories of what he did to me. I'll need more than medication for that."

And on that note, he left without so much as a glance.

"... Same time Wednesday, Henry," she called out, her tone laced with worry. Well, maybe not worry so much as a doctor's intrigue.

_... He's gonna be a tough one._


	2. Help Me Help You

Henry left the building more-or-less emotionally unscathed. His mother was beside him, walking in that brisk way of hers; she always did when she was miffed, but the firm set of her square jaw made it definite.

"She could've let me stay _in_ _there_. I would've been quiet. Doctors these days... Back when you were a boy, they wouldn't _let me_ leave the room, now they can't wait to get rid of me! Granted, they were pediatricians, but... That woman's _still_ a doctor, and I'm _still_ your mother. … Of course, maybe she was just inexperienced. I didn't see too many plaques framed," she remarked disapprovingly, as if this whole thing had been Henry's idea in the first place. "Only a few."

"_Only_ a few? Did you see how young she was?" he pointed out.

She huffed. "Then maybe she shouldn't have her own office yet, don't you think?"

"Sure," Henry replied meekly, not feeling like arguing any further. It would be a bit pointless for him to _still_ argue with his mother when he was almost thirty, although relenting was equally sad. The doctor probably thought he was a downtrodden mother's boy now, and that was bad enough. Mainly because he hadn't seen his mother in close to four years to begin with, and suddenly she was barreling headlong into his life, taking charge all over again.

_Oh, Walter. Your torment just never ends, does it? _

"Could you drive me home? My arthritis is kicking in."

Henry sighed. "Of course, mom."

"I still live in the same house," she added.

"Right."

"The one you grew up in."

He didn't answer that one, knowing there would be more to follow. Instead, he just started the car and put his seat-belt on. Sure enough, he hadn't even put the car in reverse before she was off again. "You know, your father misses you. You never call. He thinks you're avoiding him."

_Because phones don't work both ways._

"Does he?"

"Mm, yes," she replied, nodding sternly and fiddling with her handbag. "You never visit, either. Even after your little... Incident. And you never talk to that nice young lady anymore, Ellie."

"Eileen."

"Yes, Eileen. Whatever _happened_ to her?" she asked with slight alarm.

"She moved out of state." _Maybe I should've done the same thing. A break from South Ashville wouldn't hurt. Especially not after..._

"You could call her."

"I don't have to. She calls me every so often. And there's always the Internet," he pointed out. She shook her head. "Oh, yes. _The Internet_. I remember back when the Internet _never_ existed. Those were better days; back when a young man courted a woman in person, not through E-Mails."

_Courted, _he thought with a shake of the head. _She really said __**'courted'**__._

"Anyway," she continued, "I still think you should at least _call_ the girl. ...What's that?" she asked suddenly, looking suspiciously at the slip of paper he'd set on the dashboard.

Henry glanced at it. "Oh. She gave me a prescription."

"Who did?"

"Doctor Roberts."

He sighed ever so slightly as she pursed her lips. "Hm. Less than thirty minutes in there, and she's already _handing out drugs_. I'm starting to wonder about just _how_ good a doctor that girl is if she just solves every problem with pills..."

"Mother, I never _wanted_ to see a psychiatrist in the first place. This was _your_ idea," he pointed out. "Besides... She seemed to know what she was doing."

Henry was usually pretty passive, but his mother sure knew how to get under his skin… Even enough to make him feel like defending a shrink. Maybe he never grew out of that rebellious teenage streak after all, if only around his parents.

After dropping her off and getting back into his car, which he had left in her driveway that morning, he had a mental debate over whether or not he should actually get the prescription filled. He didn't even want to sit through another session, but he knew that he would end up going anyway. As for the pills... Maybe his mother had a point. She _was_ young, how did he know she was qualified enough to give him proper meds? _Not to be a prick, but... I don't feel like overdosing. Isn't there a lot of math and science involved? She didn't even **look** at that personal information sheet, doesn't she need to know my height and weight for a good dosage?_

Henry sighed heavily, shaking his head as he slowed for a red light. "Listen to yourself. After all the bullshit you've been through so far, the idea of getting some _medicine_ from your psychiatrist worries you."

_So what if she's young,_ he thought suddenly. _She __**did**__ act professional. She was watching me like a hawk, didn't write a single thing down, didn't have 'He's lost it' written all over her face… She was genuinely listening, and she seemed to know exactly what was wrong with me. __**And**__ despite "only" having two plaques, credentials are credentials. She knows better than I do if she's licensed to prescribe medicine...  
><em>

He then realized he was in the right lane to turn into the local pharmacy anyway, and shrugged as he did just that. "I don't believe in coincidences anymore. Just get the meds, Henry, you're exhausted."

* * *

><p>Kate admittedly didn't think about Henry Townshend even <em>once <em>after he left the building. She focused on each patient that came in afterward, and even when she was leaving, she didn't think give him a second thought. In fact, she didn't even intentionally take his file home along with the others; his just happened to be in the same bundle.

She left work not long after it first got dark outside. As usual, she was one of the last employees to leave; only three lights were on in the building's numerous windows as she drove out into traffic. Kate got Chinese take-out on the way home, and almost before she had even turned off the car, she could hear the shouting. She sighed heavily, having momentarily forgotten what time it was. It was around eight o'clock, which meant they were arguing again.

She had yet to know their names, but there was always a couple who fought on her floor– the fourth floor – every night, like clockwork. The windows were always open on the third through fifth floors as the air conditioning was notoriously faulty, so there was no avoiding their nightly performance. As the woman continued to cuss him out in Spanish, making him respond in mixed English explicitly enough to make even Kate flush, she practically dove into her bag to find her keys, dropped them twice, and eventually got the door open. She slammed it shut, knowing they wouldn't get the message but feeling better nonetheless, and immediately locked her lock and deadbolt. "I'm not paranoid, just aware," she commented to herself, setting the Chinese down on the kitchen counter. Kate wandered to her bedroom, which didn't take long; she lived in a one-bedroom, two-bath. Once there, she changed into a baggy t-shirt that had once belonged to one of her better-smelling exes and collapsed onto the bed.

Unfortunately, she forgot she still had her bag of junk on her arm, so it hit her smack in the cheek when she went down. "Oof!" she exclaimed, nearly throwing it to the other side of the room before thinking better of it. She _had_ to record tonight.

She did it almost every night – go through files of her patients, record herself rambling about them, and see if she could think of better solutions or diagnoses. "I'll need my Chinese for this. ... And some rum and Coke," she decided with a single nod, jumping off her bed and dashing for the kitchen.

Some people (on the rare occasions nowadays that she went out with friends or colleagues) remarked that she was on the verge of being a full-fledged alcoholic. She insisted that she drank all the time because she _worked_ all the time; alcohol seemed to help her think more clearly. And it wasn't as if she drank a _lot_ in one night... Usually. Four glasses was her limit, depending on how strong the alcohol was.

After watching some random sitcom while she ate Chinese, she eventually decided to go through her mountain of files. It was around the middle of the stack when she thought of Townshend again. "Lisa Munier still claims the medicine is helping her remember more clearly, but _I_ don't think it's helping much. Of course, medicine can only do so much... I think deep down she's _scared_ of remembering, despite how tormented she is by _not_ knowing. Her stepmom already told me – and it's mentioned in her medical records – about her abuse at the hands of her biological father. Physical and otherwise. She's clinging to her classic Repressed Memory case because the truth is she can't decide what's worse: remembering, or reliving what little she can remember... And all the reassurance in the world goes only _so far_ to someone carrying that much trauma. The rest has to be their choice, fully and truly."

That was when her mind trailed off, staring down at the file before looking over at the pile of unread ones. Which was getting smaller and smaller, but it still looked huge to her exhausted vision.

"... Repressed memories. Just like Mr. Townshend. Note a shift of subject… Yeah, let's shift to a different subject. Henry. The new patient. The one who thinks he saw Walter Sullivan, right?" she asked herself thoughtfully, rummaging through the manilla folders until she found the one labeled "_**Townshend, Henry**_".

"Right. ...I didn't write much down on him, he seemed hyperaware. But I remember it pretty well, it was a weird session in itself. Let's see, Henry Townshend… He came in with his mom, Amy – I definitely remember her. She answered all the questions for him, so I had to ask her to wait outside. He seemed _very _shy, I'll have to take it slow with him. Try and get him to open up little by little," she decided, pausing to slurp some more noodles.

"Ahhh. Anyway. He mentioned that he was trapped in his apartment a few months prior. He said it was... Locked from the inside? I'm still not sure if that was a real incident or not. I'm starting to think he may have PTSD, and if so, the locked apartment may have been a manifestation of some sort of trauma. Perhaps abandonment at an early age… Judging by his mother's demeanor, however, it's highly unlikely. Unless, of course, his biological father was the one doing the abandoning. That's a subject for another session. Or three.

"Hm… He mentioned dreams, too. Something about fog, I think...? I prescribed some medication to help with his sleep and to try and regulate the frequency of his dreams. I'll be seeing him every other day for a few more sessions until I can figure out whether or not he's stable. I don't _think_ he's suicidal, although he's ragged – like he can't quite recover from his last fight with whatever it is that's troubling him. ... I remember he said something odd before he left. He mentioned Walter Sullivan, a deceased serial killer. The one mom always talks about. If he's serious about seeing him – which it seems he is, he described him perfectly and with signs of _clear_ emotion – I suppose it's _possible_ he may have schizophrenia. The question then becomes, however, finding a connection… To have hallucinations of a specific individual is strange if you've never encountered them, but Sullivan _had_ to impact his life in one way or another."

She sighed, looking at the personal information he had filled out. She knew he wrote it – the handwriting was undeniably male.

"Henry, I can tell you're gonna be a challenge. Have I said that already?

* * *

><p><em><strong>WEDNESDAY.<strong>_

"Hi, Henry. No mother this time?"

He shook his head. "No."

She waited for any additional information he might share, but he didn't continue, so with a sigh she kept going. "Have the pills been working since I last saw you?"

He nodded.

"You're a man of many words," she commented simply, glancing down at the personal information sheet he'd filled out a couple days ago. It was at this point that she began breaking in a new patient, gauging their demeanor and quirks – their tolerance to her own demeanor, so she would know what to emphasize and what to avoid in the future. "So, since I never got around to it yesterday, I'm just going to ask about the things you filled out for this sheet. Just to make sure it's all correct. Sound good?"

Another nod.

"Not married, never have been, right?"

"Correct."

"No girlfriend. ... Or boyfriend. Again, judgment-free zone."

"No."

"And you still live here in Ashfield, too, huh?"

"Yes."

"You're obviously Caucasian... Although you still look kind of ashy. The circles look lighter already, though, that's very good. And... Lemme see... No handicap, not a veteran."

He shook his head, and she felt like ripping her hair out in frustration. She didn't know any other patients that gave consistently short syllables for every answer. "Your emergency contacts look to be your parents, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And do you prefer Internet porn or cable porn?"

"Ye – wait, what?" he asked suddenly, and she snapped her fingers before pointing at him.

"_Just_ making sure you're still awake. And a bonus three-syllable answer, just for me. ... Careful, looks like you _just might_ quirk a smile," she added with a smirk before putting his personal information back in his manila folder. She then folded her hands on top of her desk, tilting her head slightly as she watched him continue to look awkward and uncomfortable; the sad part was that her curveball question had hardly been the cause of this demeanor, if it had even influenced it at all beyond mild surprise. "You're very quiet, you know that? Have you always been this way?"

"Yes," he replied after a moment of thought.

"Anything else to add to that?" she prompted, desperate for some further explanation. As his psychiatrist, she more-or-less relied on what he had to say.

He thought about that. "… Why I'm shy?"

"If that's what you're thinking about. Or anything that pops into your head _about_ your shyness."

"... I don't have too many friends, I guess. It's probably _because_ I'm so shy. Well, maybe not shy, just..."

"Reluctant to initiate?" she suggested gingerly, making him frown slightly before sighing.

"... I guess so."

Kate nodded. "Seems that way. How about this? Pretend I'm one of your friends. Don't you say whatever you feel like around your friends?"

"For the most part."

"Then say whatever you feel like around me. Help me help you." She frowned when he didn't seem to catch it. "_Jerry Maguire_? No? ... Never mind, then."

An awkward silence then ensued. "Do you like sports, Henry?"

"They're okay."

This prompted her to abruptly stand up, which seemed to startle him even more than the porn question; she dropped her pad and pen ceremoniously onto her desk, pulled out her chair, wheeled it rather loudly until it was right in front of him, then plopped into it, arms crossed as she stared at him. Kate pretended not to notice Michelle's head poking out from behind her desk to observe through the window beside the door.

"Henry Townshend, by the time I either release you with a seal of approval or you decide I'm a **quack** and take your troubles elsewhere, we're gonna have a give-and-take system here. You _give_ me more detailed responses, and I'll _take_ them into account as I try to understand what I can do to _help you_. I can only understand you as much as ya _let _me, is that clear?"

He nodded briefly, seemingly flabbergasted by her little display – were psychiatrists not supposed to be constantly calm and collected? "… Alright."

"That was two. You can do better. Try again."

"Okay, I'll... Give you more to work with from now on," he said after pausing for thought. "It's only fair."

She grinned. "There. That was a _ton_ of syllables."

* * *

><p>If Henry had been questioning her professionalism before, he wasn't once she turned serious and delved right into the tough questions, dark features unflinching even as they emanated a certain kindness.<p>

"So. You told me yesterday you were locked in your apartment, from the inside. That must've been a hellish situation… Would you mind elaborating on it?" she asked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in her chair a little. "What it felt like once you processed it?"

For some reason, Henry found it odd – and a relief – that she asked that. Not about why he thought he was trapped, or how it happened, but what it was like. He supposed it was a reiterating of the typical "how do you feel about that," but even so, it altered his state of mind. He genuinely thought about it, trying to put it into words. He'd never been too good with words – especially not around women.

"… Pure hell. There were chains all over the door, but only on the inside. I just woke up one morning, and... There they were. No warning or anything. Of course, the first thing I did was try to pry them off. I had some tools, but none of them worked. So I tried to use my phone to call for help, but it was unplugged, and there was no dial tone."

"Who were you trying to call?" she asked suddenly. This left him wondering yet again about what kind of psychiatric tricks she was attempting to use.

"... I'm not sure. Maybe the police, but... That wouldn't make much sense. I guess I was going to call _anybody_."

"Okay. Proceed."

"... After I checked the phone, I started banging on the door and the windows, shouting for help, but no one could hear me. I was stuck in there for what seemed like forever," he concluded, shaking his head.

She nodded slowly. "That's... That's good, I've got a lot more detail now. But you misunderstood."

"Misunderstood?"

"You just told me what happened to you, and what you did to try and fix it. I wanna know why it devastated you. _Why_ did it make up your idea of a 'pure hell'? Why did it scare you so much?"

He thought even longer about that, and she waited. And waited. And still waited. It was making him squirm a little under her unwavering gaze.

"... Well, isn't it a little obvious? I was locked in my apartment... From the inside... Left with whatever was still in my refrigerator to eat… With no way to get people's attention outside. And eventually, when the hole showed up, I wasn't even safe in my apartment anymore, there were monsters there, too! ... And everyone I met was dying, sometimes right in front of me. I was alone and hopeless… No one should have to feel like that."

She nodded. "Alone. Even the most withdrawn human being never wants to be truly alone. Isn't it possible, then, that you – wait... There was a hole? And monsters?"

He winced slightly; now she was _really_ going to think he was crazy. "... Yeah. A hole appeared in my bathroom wall. And every time I crawled through it, I found myself in a different world. Although the first time, I ended up in the subway right by South Ashfield Heights – that's where I met Cynthia."

She stared at him for a few moments, then shook her head. "You're locked inside your apartment, a hole of unexplained origin appears... And you _crawl through it_? Henry, I'm beginning to question your sense of self-preservation. ... Although, I guess if I were trapped in my apartment, I would jump at any chance of getting out as well, but _still_... You know what? I digress. Who is Cynthia?"

"She was a woman I met in the subway. She thought it was all a dream. I tried to help her, but... She ended up being the first person I met that Walter murdered," he replied, his tone growing quieter towards the end.

Kate clicked her tongue. "Walter again, huh? I was thinking about this the other night… Mind me asking if you had ever heard of Walter Sullivan _before_ being trapped in your apartment?"

He shook his head. "No, I hadn't."

"How did you find out Walter Sullivan was allegedly the one who murdered Cynthia?"

He didn't like the way she said "allegedly," but answered anyway. "I kind of just… Put two and two together with some help along the way. But I _know_ it was Walter. He even left me a note the very first time I took a good look at my apartment – after being locked in."

"What did the note say?"

"It said, 'Don't go out!' and was signed 'Walter'."

She sighed before hesitantly asking, "Henry, would you agree that there are quite a few Walters in this world?"

"... Yes."

"And that a few Walters could be living in South Ashfield?"

"Yes."

"And that maybe someone was playing a cruel joke on you – and maybe even seriously murdering these poor people – but assuming the name 'Walter Sullivan'? Because I remember the police investigating copycat murders a while back…"

"... Yes," he replied somewhat grudgingly. "But..."

Her brows shot up on that one. "But what?"

He squirmed again, but he supposed she already assumed he was either crazy or lying anyway. He disliked the turn this session had taken. "You don't understand. I saw him. I _talked_ to him. I saved one of his victims, as well as myself. It was Walter Sullivan, dead or alive."

Kate let out a breath slowly, nodding slowly. "Well then... We'll just have to look into that."


	3. An Empty Grave

Henry was about to ask what she meant, but she suddenly stood up so fast it startled him yet again, grabbing her bag while stopping her chair from wheeling into the desk from her force. "Hold on _just_ a second," she murmured offhandedly as she stuffed a few stray items (pad, pen, etcetera) into her bag before grabbing her jacket.

He wasn't exactly sure what to do, so he just slowly stood up and watched as she flitted around the room at a furious pace. "Melissa!" she suddenly called out. They heard something drop – sounded like papers and something a bit heavier – before the girl behind the desk outside yanked the door open.

"Y-Yes, Doctor Roberts?" she blurted with a brief series of pants, looking like she... Quite frankly, was startled right out of her chair. _What the hell...? She must be new here, to be so jumpy..._

"Can you cancel my appointments for… Hm. At least one thirty today."

She gaped at the doctor. "Excuse me?"

Kate waved her off. "Most of them canceled their appointments for the morning anyway. There should only be a couple!"

"Can I ask why?"

"No."

"… Okay," she reluctantly agreed with a nod before going back to her desk, hastily picking up whatever she dropped.

"Where are you going?" Henry asked hesitantly, almost afraid of the answer. For all he knew, she could be going to see about getting him a room in a mental ward somewhere – especially with the skepticism of that last series of questions. He still couldn't believe he'd let that bit about monsters and the hole in his room slip so freely. There was no way he sounded the least bit mentally stable at this point.

But all she did was shrug into her jacket, pulling her mass of curls out of it before smiling slightly. "_We_ are going to look up some info on Walter Sullivan. I still don't know all the facts myself, so wouldn't it be kind of unfair for me to insist what is or isn't impossible if I don't even know what happened?"

He couldn't stop himself from letting out a tiny sigh of relief, which made her smile turn into a grin. "So. Let's go."

Henry followed her out of the office, to the elevator, and through the lobby, trying to keep up with her quick pace; it reminded him to an uncomfortable degree of his mother. He never did understand how women could walk at _all_ in the high heels they wore, let alone this fast.

"Leavin' early, Miss Roberts?" a security guard called out.

She glanced his way, not slowing her pace at all. "Huh? Oh, yeah, I am. See ya later, Norm."

"Be careful, now."

"Of course I will!" she replied cheerfully over her shoulder, zipping through the two sets of doors that led outside. She finally slowed to a stop as she started looking around the somewhat-crowded parking lot. "Hmm, where did I park again?" she wondered as Henry slowed to stand beside her, again not sure of what else to do except follow her lead.

"Uh... I could always drive –"

"Mm, no need, I'll find it," she said lazily, holding up her car keys and pressing the lock button. They heard a chirp of her car not long afterward, rousing a carefree grin from the petite woman. "See?"

Henry nodded and headed for his car, unable to help but wonder how this woman functioned on her own at all; much less how she became so qualified at such an early age. He hadn't walked more than five feet when she suddenly asked, "Hey, where're you goin'?"

"... To my car. I was going to follow you," he said carefully. Where did she _think_ he was going? The doctor shook her head, walking at that quick pace of hers again to catch up with him.

"Ohhh no, we're going in _my_ car. For one thing, you're officially under my supervision. Doctor-patient legal terms and all that. I don't wanna get sued by your mother if you get in a wreck or something, I can already tell she's not too happy with me," she said simply, looking up at him matter-of-factly. The most he could give was a reluctant nod, which she clearly wasn't satisfied with. She tapped her foot impatiently.

"Well? I don't wanna have to drag you by the arm, Henry. Since I'm younger _and_ shorter than you, I'd imagine it'd be pretty damn embarrassing."

"Let's just get going."

Kate seemed satisfied enough with that, giving a cheerful nod as she made a beeline once more for her car. _Demanding, too… Just like mom._ It roused a cringe out of him.

She led the way to an old seafoam Toyota. "1997 Toyota Tercel," she informed him, catching him looking. "I could probably get a better car with my salary, but Alfred's grown on me."

"... Alfred?" he repeated, looking at the car questioningly. She paused in trying to jam the keys into the lock on the driver's door, looking at him as if it were obvious.

"Yeah. The car. I named him Alfred. It suits him, don't you think?"

Honestly, he was wondering how she became a psychiatrist when she seemed to need some kind of help herself, but nodded anyway.

"Well? You just gonna stand there looking at Alfred? He doesn't bite. ... Although, the doors get stuck, so don't hesitate to yank it open," she informed him as she practically wrenched her own door open before calmly sliding in.

Henry let out a breath before yanking his door open as well. It resisted the motion at first, but swung out with a slight creak anyway. Against his better judgment on the whole situation, he climbed in. The car itself was comfy enough, and relatively clean. Almost before she'd even started the car, Doctor Roberts was twisting open a travel-sized bottle of Jack Daniels and taking a swig or two.

_Man, the way she's throwing that back, she must drink a lot... That, or she took lessons in a lot more than psychiatry in college. Maybe both..._

"Want some?" she offered, and he shook his head. He was already bewildered enough by this whole thing, so he decided staying in the most rational state of mind as possible was a good way to go.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. Do you drink at all, Henry?"

"On occasion."

"How much is 'on occasion'?" she asked, pulling out of the lot and speeding into traffic. Granted, she seemed to be an alright driver from that point on.

"Well, not daily, but every now and then..." he replied, not really knowing what else to say – was she _really_ analyzing his own drinking habits? She was at a rare loss of words as well, apparently. They sat in silence for what felt like an hour, but according to the radio's clock, it was only ten minutes.

Twelve.

Sixteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-seven.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked suddenly, making her jump and drop the bottle's cap she'd been fumbling with.

"Aw, dammit," she muttered, trying to keep her eyes on the road while fumbling blindly on the floorboard for the top.

"I-I'll get it, just focus on driving!" he blurted as she started to swerve a little. Her searching hand immediately zoomed back up to the steering wheel, nodding quickly as she just barely dodged oncoming traffic.

"... Good idea."

The top happened to be black, just like the floorboard, so he was having about the same amount of luck she'd been having.

"Anyway, we're going to the Town Archives."

"Ashfield has that?" he wondered, still looking for the top.

"Eeyup. Down at the main library. It's down in the basement. ...Creepy place at night."

Great. Just what he needed. More creepy places. As if daily life hadn't gotten creepy enough lately. He still hadn't really told her in full about that... He figured if he told her about the hallucinations, she'd _really_ think he was crazy. Then again, he'd figured the same outcome for just about everything he'd admitted to her so far. But hallucinations... To confirm he had them, even if she'd already assumed as much, would definitely do the trick. _Any_ psychiatrist would write you off as crazy at that point, it was basic common knowledge.

He had been busy mulling it over, so when his hand found something hard he jumped a little. So did Doctor Roberts, bringing her heel down on his hand out of reflex.

They both cried out – she for feeling her shoe dig into something fleshy and he in pain.

"Oh! ... Sorry about that," she muttered apologetically as he rubbed his hand.

"No, sorry, that was my fault," he assured her, finally finding the cap and picking it up; he waited until a red light to safely hand it over. She smiled apologetically and took it, blowing it a little before taking one more swig from the bottle and putting the cap in its rightful place. Why she didn't finish it off when there was only about two sips' worth, he had no idea.

"... I'm still sorry," she informed him, appearing a little flushed.

He glanced at the mark on his hand before shaking his head. "I've been through worse. It's fine."

... And then they returned, a bit gratefully, to their prolonged silence.

* * *

><p>Kate drove the rest of the way in silence, not able to think of something to say after crushing her patient's hand. That was a first. Fortunately, it wasn't long before they pulled into the Ashfield Public Library, and they both sighed in relief. "Finally! ... Not because I felt awkward or anything. ... My ass… Hurts if I stay in one place too long," she added lamely, not even sure as the words were coming out of her mouth why the <em>hell<em> she was saying that. Henry didn't reply to that train wreck of a phrase, thank God, and she shook her head quickly before locking her car and walking briskly for the entrance – both out of haste and due to a noticeable drop in temperature on this side of town.

She breezed past the children's section and the various librarians flitting around throughout, all the way to the back of the library. Kate stopped abruptly, however, to dig in her bag for the card ID necessary past that point, and she heard Henry's shoes squeak as he tried not to run into her. "Sorry. Forgot I needed this thing," she muttered, nearly her whole head submerged inside the depths of her shoulder bag… She really needed to clean that thing out someday soon.

Today was not that day.

Finally, she found it next to her wallet in a zipper pocket, and with a triumphant cry, held it up for all to see. She attempted to ignore the hiss it earned her from the nearest librarian, reluctantly lowering her hand in an attempt to remain at least somewhat professional.

... Well, as professional as she _could_ look after crushing a patient's hand with her heel. She still felt _really_ bad for that.

"So... The public can't come down here?" he asked as she slid the ID card through a slot. The little light on the console turned green with a tiny beeping noise of confirmation, and she opened the heavy frosted-glass door before turning to look at him.

"Nope. I'm one of the exceptions. Being a high-and-mighty psychiatrist and all that." Actually, she'd had a copy made by an ex that she was thankfully still on fair terms with. He had access because his dad worked for the town's historical department, and she really did like the idea of being able to look up extra information on various patients and projects. Her mentor had taken her along in her graduate school years when asked to profile criminals and their behavior, and they had undergone many a sleepless night within both the library and its archives. "... This should be fun. Okay, let's see... If Walter Sullivan _really_ expired, any record of his death would be over _here_," she explained thoughtfully, strolling over to the section labeled "Ashfield Newspaper Archive".

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I don't keep up with current events around here, but if Walter ever died in prison, it'd make _big_ news. ... At least, the way my mom goes on about him, it should..."

"Does she know him?" he asked as they rifled through newspaper copies. Kate noticed he used present tense, but didn't comment on it. She just shook her head, pulling out a huge stack so she could go through them quickly at a table.

"No, she's just... I don't know. _Obsessed_ wouldn't be the right word, but she definitely kept track of just about anything regarding Walter Sullivan while I lived at home. If he was mentioned in the news, odds were she was glued to the television set. She told us he was dead about a week before I moved back to Maine. Not that I cared if he was dead or not, I barely knew who he _was_ back then," she rambled, skimming headlines.

"That was back in '97, so look for articles from then," she added suddenly after a few minutes of looking aimlessly, wanting to pinch herself for not thinking of that sooner.

"... I didn't know who he was, either, until a matter of months ago," he commented quietly. Kate knew what he was implying, so she decided to leave it lingering in the air for now and keep looking.

After a few minutes, she sighed exasperatedly. "Do you have some kind of sticky stains on _your_ papers, too?"

"... Actually, yes. I think it's chocolate."

"I _hope_ it's chocolate," she grumbled, attempting to avoid the brown smears as best she could while fumbling through pages upon pages of news she couldn't care less about. Although, it _was_ kind of interesting to see the shift in news. One day, the front page would have a picture of a school having a fundraiser or a graduation, or someone new heading into office as mayor, etcetera. And then occasionally, the headline would read about gang-related deaths or an important person's disappearance. Soon it would be right back to some holiday parade or improvements on the city itself.

It seemed so random, Ashville's good sides and bad ones. It wasn't consistent at all, and very few – if any – of its negative headlines had to do with Walter Sullivan.

"I found something," Henry said suddenly, making her jump with a soft yelp and drop her papers. She started to pick them up, but finally just left them there for the time being and went to see what he'd found. They both read it over silently, with Kate trying her best to peek over his shoulder. The heels certainly helped.

"**Silent Hill's police department announced today that Walter Sullivan, who was arrested**  
><strong>on the 18th of this month for the<strong>  
><strong>brutal murder of two local children, committed<strong>  
><strong>suicide in his jail cell on the<strong>  
><strong>morning of the 22nd.<strong>

**According to the police**  
><strong>statement, Sullivan used a soup<strong>  
><strong>spoon to stab himself in the neck,<strong>  
><strong>severing his carotid artery.<strong>  
><strong>By the time the guard discovered<strong>  
><strong>him, Sullivan was dead from blood<strong>  
><strong>loss, the spoon buried two inches<strong>  
><strong>in his neck.<strong>

_**Silent Hill Gazette**_** reports, "An old schoolmate of Walter**  
><strong>Sullivan's from his hometown of<strong>  
><strong>Pleasant River said 'He didn't<strong>  
><em><strong>look<strong>_** like the type of guy who**  
><strong>would kill kids.<strong>

**But I do remember that just**  
><strong>before they arrested him, he<strong>  
><strong>was blurting out all sorts of<strong>  
><strong>strange stuff like 'He's trying<strong>  
><strong>to kill me. He's trying to<strong>  
><strong>punish me. The monster...the<strong>  
><strong>red devil. Forgive me. I did it,<strong>  
><strong>but it wasn't me!'. '<strong>

**The schoolmate then added,**  
><strong>'I guess now that I think of it,<strong>  
><strong>he <strong>_**was**_** kinda crazy.**'"

Kate shook her head. "Suicide with a soup spoon...? Sullivan had quite the flair for the dramatic… Guess he found himself caught in a corner." She then sighed. "Well, there you have it, Henry. Walter Sullivan's rotting in a grave somewhere. … Although I can't help but wonder what this clipping's doing shoved in here, seeing as it's from several towns over," she added thoughtfully.

He continued to stare at the report, seemingly oblivious to her ramblings. "... This can't be all there is. He mentioned his grave was empty."

"He who? Walter?"

Before Henry could answer, several papers fell out of his hand from behind the newspaper article. They bent to pick them up, and Kate shook her head. "I'd _love_ to know whose bright idea it was to eat chocolate while handling these... That's gotta be some kind of violation or something. I mean –" she cut herself off once a certain heading caught her eye. She picked up the article slowly, skimming it over. Henry paused in picking up the papers, watching her expression change from confused to intrigued, and finally to an expression so mixed it was difficult to describe.

"... Whoever 'he' is, he was right. Walter's grave _was_ empty in Silent Hill. ... And apparently, there was a number carved on the tombstone that matched the numbers carved onto the victims. '11121'? The police exhumed his grave and there was nothing there." Kate's mind flitted through the new possibilities. Henry could still be suffering from delusions and nightmares from some underlying trauma, it was still very possible. _Or_... He could have a legitimate connection to Walter Sullivan, one that remained to fully be seen. Which meant he could be an _extremely _important key in finding a serial killer. There was only one way to find out.

She turned suddenly to look at him, making him jump for what had to be the eightieth time that day. "... Henry, this changes my whole outlook on this entirely. You're gonna have to explain everything to me. Every _detail_ of what you experienced with Walter Sullivan, no matter _how_ small or painful. But first, I need your permission for something."

"For what?" he asked, and she could tell he was feeling rather relieved – and maybe even triumphant – that she seemed to believe him, even marginally.

"I need your permission to schedule a CT scan, just to be sure you don't have a brain tumor of any kind. If you had a brain tumor, it would explain what you've been experiencing. It could also mean early identification if you haven't had seizures yet, which is _incredibly_ good news. If there's _no_ tumor... Well, we'll go from there."

He didn't answer for a few moments, so she picked up the rest of the papers and began putting them back. Her movements were sluggish, as reluctant as his thoughts as he attempted to form a coherent response out of them. Finally, he spoke again. "... You think I might have a tumor?"

"To be honest, I don't know _what_ the hell's going on right now, I'm still processing this. You either have a tumor, have some underlying trauma manifesting itself in an extremely dangerous way, _or_ you're telling the truth and there's still a mass murderer on the loose. Hence why I want to eliminate the possibility of a tumor. I'm trying to determine your credibility," she commented, grabbing her bag and sliding it back over her shoulder before looking at him. The grave manner of her hazel gaze, now much more grey than they were blue, left no room to question her sincerity.

He looked down at the papers in his hands before nodding slowly and putting them back where he'd gotten them. "... Well... I guess I don't really have a choice. If I say no, I'd just look even crazier and you wouldn't believe a word I say. So... I guess I'm getting a CT scan."

She nodded ever so slightly, and he could still practically see the gears turning in her head. "I knew you'd see it my way."


	4. Daydreams

It wasn't long before Kate decided to get an MRI for him instead; she'd heard from one of her colleagues that it would probably hold more accurate results than a CT scan, _and_ would be much easier to refer. Indeed, she managed to get an MRI squeezed into a time slot only a week after getting Henry's permission; a CT would have taken weeks _if_ she were lucky. In the time until then, she didn't want to ask many questions without knowing how credible he really was – nor did she want to raise his stress levels by asking for more details of his dreams unnecessarily, thus not allowing the medicine to perform fully by continuing to keep the dreams in the forefront of his mind. So she told him he didn't have to show up for any sessions until the results for the scan came back. She strongly disliked being at a standstill, unable to help a patient in any sense, but there were few alternatives.

She walked down the halls of the unbelievably white hospital, heels echoing to a slightly uneasy degree amidst the usual ambiance of a hospital. The MRI room was separate from the others, to the left. Kate went all the way down the hall before swinging open the admittedly heavy door, a breeze blowing onto her face from the effort. Henry was sitting in the only occupied chair, fidgeting with his hands again. _Oh_, she loathed it when he did that.

He looked up and over towards the door, surprise on his face after seeing who it was. "D-Doctor Roberts? What are you... Doing here?"

She smiled and sat down in the seat next to him. "This seat isn't taken, right?"

He shook his head slowly, and she crossed her right leg over her left casually. "I'm here for two reasons. One, because I tend to worry when _any_ of my patients pay the hospital a visit. And two, my schedule's wide open until eleven; I try to be as flexible as possible, so my patients end up rescheduling pretty often. Long story short, I figured I would drop by and see how things go," she explained cheerfully, dropping her bag with a _**THUNK**_ of finality.

"... Oh. Okay."

"Eeyup."

And thus, their popular awkward silence reappeared for a good twenty minutes. The woman behind the counter looked at them every so often, apparently finding the silence almost as unbearably stifling as Kate did.

Finally, Henry himself broke the silence, and she sighed a little with relief as soon as he took a breath to speak.

"... Do a lot of your patients go to hospitals at some point?" he asked. She winced; now she wished he'd kept the silence up.

"Not too many. I mean, occasionally I get patients that have chronic mental conditions, and require constant medical care... But aside from that, it's pretty rare. Well... There was this _one_ teenage boy that went to the hospital under emergency circumstances, but he survived and all that. ...Though I guess there's a first time for everything," she concluded thoughtfully.

She then promptly wanted to kick herself for actually saying that. Why did she even _say_ that? Great, now the silence was even more awkward, and Henry was more nervous than before, resulting in twice as much fidgeting.

_Way to go, Kate. That was just brilliant._

"Of course, you're only here for a simple scan. It's more of a precaution than anything, so there's no need to hype yourself up over it."

Henry just nodded, still fidgeting. Kate let out a sigh of defeat and picked up a magazine. "... Hey. Did you know that according to this, if you keep holding your pee in, it could cause serious damage to your prostate – leading to trouble urinating and _even_ erectile dysfunction?" she inquired, reading it straight from the text. Kate bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at how flustered he became – which, of course, was what she was going for. Even if it caused incredible embarrassment, any distraction was a welcome one for him.

"N-No, I didn't know that."

"Yep. Do you hold your pee in a lot, Henry? ... I'm your psychiatrist, it's a _strictly_ medical question," she added solemnly, a sagely nod following.

"... Not often. Only when I'm... really... busy," he answered slowly, looking just a little bit flushed.

Kate nodded, satisfied. "Same here! ... But I _also_ don't have a prostate, so I have a lot less to lose by such _reckless behavior_." The nurse behind the glass snorted a laugh, eyes still trained on the computer screen, and Henry seemed incredibly relieved when a woman opened the door to their far left.

"Henry Townshend?" she called, looking at the two as Henry stood up so quick he almost stumbled. Kate couldn't help but let the smile tug freely at her lips once he had gone through the door, picking her magazine back up and shaking her head.

"He makes it so easy."

* * *

><p>Henry followed the woman to a dimly-lit room. In the middle of it was an MRI machine, just like the ones in movies, and he gulped despite himself. He wasn't nervous about the test itself – he was more worried about the results.<p>

The more he'd thought about it before the test, the more possible he found it to be that a tumor might have caused the whole thing. But then he would shake his head at the whole theory, knowing those people _had_ died and Eileen _had_ experienced it all with him. And the chances of Eileen having the same tumor and those people just _dying_ mysteriously were slim to null. Surely Doctor Roberts knew that, too, even if he hadn't told her about Eileen yet. She'd assured him this was only a precaution, and the fear he had seen in her eyes as she read over that article about Sullivan's grave… There was no denying he had swayed her "professional opinion".

"Just lay down with your feet facing me, relax, and be as still as possible," she instructed, turning the lights on and shuffling around the room. "Would you like a blanket?" the nurse asked next, and he shook his head as he got situated on the machine's pull-out platform.

"You sure? It gets really cold in here."

"I suppose one wouldn't hurt," he relented, since she seemed to _really_ want him to have a blanket. He was sure many a patient had turned one down, only to call out for one minutes into the test. That thought made him laugh a little as she draped it over him. He couldn't help but want to laugh even more; this whole thing reminded him of his mother when he was little, and he was positive the stress and lack of sleep was more of a likely cause to his uncontrollable urge. Nevertheless, he managed to not openly display his amusement as she also plopped big old-fashioned earphones on his head.

"What radio station?"

"Anything's fine."

"So opera then?"

"... 98.1," he replied after a moment of thought. She nodded.

"This'll only take about forty-five minutes – an hour tops. If I were you, I'd just go to sleep. Everyone else usually does," she threw over her shoulder as she turned off all the lights and left the room.

"Sleep... Not likely," he muttered to himself as the machine pulled him inside only enough for to have his torso and upward in the small compartment. It was like a tube; a small, stuffy, noisy tube. It was a good thing he wasn't claustrophobic. Soon the music started, and his face relaxed a bit more.

This wasn't too bad.

The only tough part was when a song came on that he liked, which happened several times, he had to do his best not to tap out the bass. It was a habit of his that he'd picked up a long time ago, and the best he could do to avoid it now was to sit on his hands. He was just starting to doze off when he heard laughter. It was a deep, _**rumbling**_ laugh, echoing despite the music blasting through his ears and the occasional beeps and whirs of the machine he was in. _What... The hell?_

The laugh seemed to get louder and louder, and the longer it continued the more anxious Henry became.

Suddenly, all noises ceased. The machine made a powering-down noise, its whirring slowed, and the radio station became nothing but white noise before going dead altogether. Henry thought about running out of there, but kept reassuring himself that the test was over and the nurse would be back any second to tell him he could leave.

Sure enough, he heard footsteps. He sighed with relief, then suddenly felt afraid all over again. The footsteps were heavy, like boots, and were slow and ominous. He knew someone whose footsteps met all those categories. This wouldn't be the first time in the past few months that Walter had temporarily invaded his reality, but it usually wasn't quite this vivid.

Each thudding footstep made his stomach drop, and the fear that dragged down his spine felt as cold as if a ghost's fingers were gripping him tightly, one by one. He was about to attempt an escape when a pair of actual hands clenched around his ankles, holding him down. Henry squirmed, but was weaker than usual with fear and exhaustion – the medication was starting to lose its effect, leaving him without much of a rested feeling each morning.

Where was his metal pipe when he needed it?

There was a shrill, brief screech of metal against the outside of the machine, and suddenly his right leg from the knee down was engulfed in agonizing pain. It spread up his entire body, white-hot and unbearable.

Henry screamed as Walter continued to cut through his leg; he could feel the blood rushing out of him, a sickening throbbing accompanying the sensation – although actual pain seemed to elude him due to such extensive shock, replaced by a sickening amount of pressure against his calf, and it somehow frightened him even more than if he _had_ experienced further pain. He felt like he was going to pass out any moment as he felt the knife tear through skin and muscle, getting right to the bone with ease.

He wished he'd do more than pass out, he wished he'd just die quickly. There was a malice that accompanied Walter's actions that suggested a quick end was far from the plan, though. Suddenly, there was a sickening snapping sound, and the pressure reached a high point before slipping back down into dull and agonizing. The air was starting to feel heavy, suffocating, the stench of blood and imminent death wafting into the tube. He heard another set of footsteps rush in, and the clack of high heels was unmistakable.

"Henry?" Doctor Roberts practically screeched, the hysteria obvious in her voice. Walter paused in cutting through his other leg, and the air was thick with silence.

"Get out!" Henry shouted with a groan, feeling increasingly faint from the blood loss. He felt absolutely helpless and terrified with his eyes looking at the dark tube of the machine, blind to what was happening in the room. As if hearing his thoughts, Walter yanked the platform out of the tube, grinning down at him. There was a mischief present that seemed far more chilling than the calm logic Sullivan had possessed once before.

"Hello, Henry."

Doctor Roberts was shaking all over, pressed against the door as if it would provide a barrier of some sort, eyes wide with fear. "Wh-What...? Security! Somebody, get help immediately!" she shouted as if suddenly coming to her senses, turning to open the door. Walter was rushing her in an instant, yanking her back by her hair. She fell to the floor so easily, as if she were a life-sized rag doll compared to the seasoned killer above her, looking up at them both in total shock. She sputtered on her own words, and it seemed to amuse Walter – who chuckled and bent over Henry to resume his work.

Henry found himself screaming once more as tears pricked his eyes. He couldn't help it, the pain was like nothing he'd ever felt before – not to mention the added helplessness of involving the shrink in this. Doctor Roberts slowly stood as he occupied himself with Henry, and seeing her inch towards a chair in the room, he tried screaming even louder to keep Walter's focus on torturing him. She got a good grip on the chair before swinging it as hard as she could, clocking Walter in the head.

Unfortunately, all it did was make him stagger backwards, clutching his head and appearing mildly irritated at best. "... Now _that_ was unnecessary," he scolded condescendingly, wagging a finger at her.

Henry noticed he was a lot cockier, as well, than he remembered. Before, he had acted as if murder was an unsightly blemish on his tasks at hand, but now... He seemed to be thoroughly _**enjoying** _it. This wasn't like him, and Henry was honestly unsure which was more terrifying.

Doctor Roberts was shaking all over again as he advanced, knife in hand. The most rational brain in the world could hardly fathom the kind of situation she found herself in, and he could practically _see_ the fear paralyze her. "... What're you doing? Run!" Henry snapped suddenly, and she seemed to sharpen back into focus – clambering to her feet and attempting to run out of the room.

Walter, being at least twice her size, caught up to the completely distraught woman, grabbing her by the arm. "Na-ah-ah, Katherine. I wouldn't do that if I were you," he commented, his tone teasing. She struggled, naturally, kicking and screaming for help. All that did was make him annoyed. "Quite the screamer, aren't you?" he inquired simply, yanking her head back by her hair and holding the knife to her throat.

"Walter," Henry called out weakly, breathing heavy and feeling more lightheaded than ever. Walter turned to grin at him, as if sharing some sort of inside joke.

"It's nothing personal, Katherine. Judgment is blind," he remarked simply before dragging the knife across her throat.

Henry watched, horrified, as her scream faded into a frantic gurgle, blood pouring down from her neck. Walter dropped her to the floor, turning back to Henry. The thud her body made was almost sickening, hands still clenching and fingers writhing as if trying to claw her way toward the exit – without making enough progress to even advance an inch.

"I'll finish with you later," he informed the doctor as she slowly became motionless, her blood pooling on the floor at a sickeningly rapid rate. What with all the blood mixing together in the room now, it was starting to smell absolutely horrible – with dread, Henry noted that it smelled just like Room 302 had started to.

Walter bent back over Townshend's leg, settling his knife comfortably into the deep imbedding it had already made as Henry's eyes rolled back. "Now… Where were we? Oh, yes."

* * *

><p>Henry woke up screaming uncontrollably, making the nurse scream as well. "Mr. Townshend, are you alright?!" she exclaimed, eyes wide.<p>

He was out of the machine now, and the lights were on. Panting, he glanced down. Both his legs were still intact, but the scent of death and blood still lingered – no doubt for his senses alone. He sighed with relief, nodding quickly as he sat up. "F-Fine. I just had... A bad dream," he replied, making her sigh as well.

"... If you're sure. The scan's over, you… You can leave now," she said slowly, taking the headphones and blanket almost fearfully before retreating from the room. It was unclear which one of them was shaking more noticeably.

As she moved to open the door, Doctor Roberts burst through it, knocking the poor woman in the face with the door. "Ah—!"

_**THUD.**_

"Henry, are you alright?" she asked with a hint of the hysteria she'd experienced in the dream, not even taking notice to the girl she'd just sent flying to the floor. He nodded quickly, making her sigh.

"I was having a bad dream," he repeated simply, and she reluctantly nodded in understanding. They both looked down at the middle-aged nurse as she let out a groan, sitting up and holding her face.

"Ah, my nose…!" she cried out, hissing in pain as she removed her hand slowly.

"... Oh. Shit, you're bleeding," Doctor Roberts informed her, bending down to her level. The nurse stood up quickly, making the doctor jump and blink in surprise.

"I'm fine, really… I'm at a hospital, after all. Accidents happen, right?"

"Right! Sorry about that," Dr. Roberts said cheerfully. The nurse left the room, muttering to herself as the doctor walked over to him. Henry could only assume she was eager to leave them both be at this point.

"Careless bitch" was among her stream of comments, and Roberts cringed somewhat as the door slammed behind her. "Whoops. I honestly didn't know she was... Are you _sure_ you're alright?" she asked again, looking him over worriedly before sniffing the air and making a face. "Why does it smell so terrible in here?"

"I'm fine."

Her brows furrowed. "The hell kind of dream were you experiencing?" she wondered, shaking her head as he followed her out of the room.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Duly noted, but I'll definitely be asking later."

She didn't persist like she normally would have; it was clear she was almost equally shaken.

As they were leaving the building, Kate watched him carefully. That scream of his had been blood-curdling; it had made her tremble briefly just hearing it. There was no mistaking the sound of a man in unbelievable pain – she'd heard it only on rare occasions, but it wasn't a sound one easily forgot.

"... Henry?"

He jumped, glancing at her. "Yes?"

"Do, uh... Do you want me to drive you home or something? I don't mind, it'll just give me an extra excuse to delay busywork until my next session," she added quickly, genuinely concerned about his well being at this point.

The way he was looking around them, shaken and even more ashen than before… He was in no state to _be_ alone at all, much less drive alone. Not on her watch, anyway.

"I..."

"That sounds like a yes, so I'll take it as one," she commented simply. Henry sighed in defeat, and she smiled halfheartedly in response.

"You don't do well with saying no to people, do you?"

"Mostly just women," he replied, making her laugh despite herself as she opened one of the hospital's main double-doors for him.

* * *

><p>Kate had dropped Henry off, taking note of where he lived; an apartment complex not too far from her own – that in itself was surprising, considering how traumatizing his <em>last<em> apartment had been for him. She supposed it was cheaper than a house, though, and he was undoubtedly tight on money. According to the sheet he'd filled out that first day, he was some sort of freelance photographer. _Anything_ freelance usually didn't make much money, unless it was a well-known business.

He'd asked if she wanted to come in, but she declined, saying she was going to go catch a bus back to the hospital and pick up her car. The bus stop was less than a block away from his apartment (she'd passed it on the way there), and she'd take a bus over a subway any day. Just the _thought_ of being underground with total strangers like that... No. Just no. Especially since she'd seen so many horror movies about subways. It all pretty much dictated that subways were only good for **bad** encounters.

After getting to the hospital and driving home, she had muddled through the remainder of her day as if in a haze – immediately collapsing on her bed upon day's end, not bothering to even remove her shoes. Now, upon waking, she felt even more tired than before as she stretched and sat up.

Kate looked around groggily, trying to locate her alarm clock. She had thrown it somewhere earlier that morning – as per routine. Judging by a haphazard glance outside her window, it was well into the evening hours. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, slipping on a pair of sweatpants.

Kate pulled her hair up into a ponytail as she headed for the kitchen, and she was about to heat up some old Chinese when she realized that in her mental fog of stupidity, she'd left her files sitting on her desk. This was a problem for two main reasons: one, she took them home every day and she was a complete creature of habit, and two, _anyone_ could now read those files – if they hadn't already. Which went completely against the Patient Confidentiality rules, and it would be just her luck that someone _very_ high up saw those and filed a lawsuit on her ass.

"... Ah, hell," she muttered, slamming the fridge shut and grabbing her purse before heading for the door. She dodged the fighting couple – the guy had been holding an ashtray, and as she went down the stairs, she heard the sound of glass shattering against a wall. Kate glanced back, and after seeing the woman unharmed, _ran_ for her car. She glanced up at the sky as she drove off; it was gray, just like it had been for the past week.

Upon arriving, she noticed the parking lot was almost completely deserted; there were only five cars, not counting her own. Kate frowned as she walked inside, punching the elevator button with more force than necessary. It was probably a good thing it was deserted, she didn't need to have someone higher up seeing her in sweats and a Radiohead t-shirt in her office. Sure, she'd spent the whole night in her office before and just slept on the couch, but at least on those occasions she was always in work clothes and had some pocket Febreeze handy.

She flew out of the elevator, digging for her office keys as she walked down the hall, turned two corners, and went to the fifth door on the right. The door slammed against the wall when she opened it, making her jump, and then she sighed in relief as she grabbed her files. "Phew. Damn, Kate, can't just leave this stuff laying around," she muttered, stuffing them in her bag. She was about to zip her bag back up when her scalp tingled. It felt like someone was watching her, and Kate turned around to address whomever it may be.

She didn't see anyone, causing her brows to furrow in perplexity. "... Uh, hello?" she called out. No answer. With a shrug, she zipped her bag up before leaving the office, locking the door behind her. Kate felt a cold sensation dart down her arm, followed by a tug to her sleeve, making her drop her keys in surprise. "Jesus!" she hissed, bending down to pick them up. "You scared the living _hell_ outta m –" she cut herself off upon looking up, seeing it was a little boy.

"... Oh. I mean, uh, heck. You scared the living _heck_ outta me!" she recovered with an anxious laugh, standing back up and smiling. "What're you doing out here by yourself?"

He didn't answer, just looked at her in that same wide-eyed way a lot of young kids do. She looked around the empty hallway, starting to feel uneasy with how dark it was, before looking back at him. "Where's your mo – ..."

He was gone.

Kate looked around, beyond confused now. "What? He was just here! ... Crap," she muttered, knowing she couldn't just let a kid wander around the stupid building with no adult in sight. Damn her and her stupid morals. Damn her soft spot for kids, too. Kate sighed and headed forward, using her cell phone for a light. While she was damning things, damn the dark hallways, they were creepy as hell.

She jumped as she heard a door slam shut, her heart beating a little faster. _It's just that kid playing, that's all. ... Although I'm __**really**__ not in the mood._

"H-Hey, little boy! I'm not gonna hurt you or anything!" she called out, opening doors that were unlocked and peering through the windows of those that weren't. At one point she heard a pair of tiny shoes squeaking against the floor's surface, and she ran after the sound.

"Hey! Come on, _seriously_, you can't be in here by yourself!" she shouted, turning the corner and letting out a shout of surprise. He was just standing there looking at her, and it was... Kind of creepy. Kate hesitantly inched closer to him, kneeling down to his level. "Hey there. Look, you can't be running around here by yourself. Didn't your mom ever tell you not to run off?"

He shook his head – there was a start. "Do you talk? ... Well, either way, does your mom work here? Or your dad maybe? Where are they?"

She felt a hand on her shoulder, making her scream and jump nearly a foot. She whirled around to see Norm looking just as frightened as she had, hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry! ... Miss Roberts, what're you doing here so late?"

"It's not _me_ you should be wondering about, it should be _this_ little guy," she replied with a laugh, pointing to—

"... Hey, where'd he go?" she wondered before sighing exasperatedly. "Great, I've gotta chase him down all over again. Norm, do you mind helping me out? I'm really tired," she muttered. He continued to stare at her, and she sighed again, hands on her hips. "What?"

"... Miss Roberts, we're the only ones up here."

"What? No, you just missed him, there was a little boy –"

"All I saw was you on your knees talking to thin air," he interrupted, shaking his head. "I was up here doing my rounds, and then I saw you running and shouting. There was no one else up here."

The blood drained from her face. _Did I just see... A ghost or – or something? No, ghosts don't exist. There's gotta be some kind of __**logical**__ explanation... Like stress. And exhaustion. And your mind playing tricks on you because you decided letting yourself wander around a dark office building was a noble idea._

"... Sorry for scarin' ya, Norm. I guess I'm just _really_ tired lately," she muttered, rubbing her shoulder uncomfortably.

He smiled and waved her off. "S'okay. Want me to walk you to your car? You look a little upset."

She smiled back, shaking her head. "No, that's alright, I'm fine. Have a good one, alright?"

As soon as she was in the elevator, she frowned and ruffled her hair, taking out her ponytail since half her hair was out of it at that point, anyway.

"… What the _hell_ just happened?"


	5. Night Terrors

Kate had requested the results be sent to her office as opposed to his residence, and three days later she made herself resist the urge to rip them open as soon as they made their way into her tiny hands. She decided she would wait until Henry was in the room to open them, not entirely prepared herself for what the results might be. Either way, they wouldn't bode well for him. Despite all that, she was still anxious to _see_ said results.

Needless to say, she was extremely happy when he finally showed up. "You're three minutes late," she informed him before holding up the folder. "Your results came in."

"What did they say?"

"I dunno, I haven't read them yet."

"What? Why?" he wondered as she tore them open.

She shrugged. "I wanted to wait until you were here. Plus, to be honest, I was scared to see the results. ... Jeez, I sound like my sister-in-law over those pregnancy tests," she muttered to herself, glancing up from behind the papers as his ears turned a little red. She returned to skimming them over with a slight chuckle, then sighed quietly before setting them down. "Well, good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"

"... Good, I guess."

"No tumor."

He couldn't help but grin, which surprised her. Grinning like an idiot was _way_ out of character, judging from what little time she'd known Henry. "That's great news! ... What's the bad news?"

"Now I have to take your account seriously," she muttered, forehead cradled against her palm as she groaned as quietly as she could manage. "This whole situation lacks concrete evidence, and the only logical notion going for it is that Walter's grave _was_, indeed, empty. And now I'm gonna have to take you to the police to tell them your story – _after_ you tell it to me in full, of course, since you were my responsibility first – and it's gonna be huge news, and then it's gonna be this _insanely_ long investigation that'll in all likelihood drag a ton of names through the mud – yours included, and my mom will be calling me _every_ single day for 'inside news', and..." she trailed off, realizing she probably sounded like a self-centered bitch at best.

She sat up, clearing her throat before grinning at him. "Although it's great to know there's nothing seriously wrong with you!" she added with a more genuine smile of relief. "You know what? None of the other stuff matters, as long as you're tumor-free and, for all intents and purposes, mentally stable. I'll deal with the rest, I'm just whining to whine. Psychiatrists need an ear every now and then, too." He didn't seem to buy it, but smiled anyway to be polite. She sighed once more before getting up – notepad and pen in her hand for the first time during their sessions – and dragging her wheelie chair in front of him again, plopping into it.

"I, um... Okay, let's be honest, I have no idea where to begin now. So how about… You start by telling me about the people you saw Sullivan murder," she suggested, taking the cap off her pen and looking up at him. "That way I can find more on this."

He had paled at the very mention of the victims, but talked anyway. "Well... First was Cynthia."

"Right, I think you mentioned her before. What happened to her?"

"She, um... She had been trapped by Walter inside a subway car. I'd gotten her out, but we got separated at one point and... So I went back to get her, but h-he'd gotten to her first. ... He stabbed her to death. She thought the whole thing was just a dream, but I was the only one who woke up," he muttered, getting quieter and quieter.

Kate nodded, writing it down diligently; her tone, however, was incredibly gentle – a sharp contrast to her generally brash temperament. "I know this is hard, but I _have_ to know how they died and who they were. There were others, right?" she asked, hoping he'd open up like he had the last time. Not just for the police report she had a feeling she'd have to eventually file, but to get to the bottom of just what _exactly_ was traumatizing **him** the most. If she found that out, she could help him work through it; he still had a mental problem, and she was still going to do everything in her power to fix it.

He nodded at her, looking down at his hands. "Yes. Three others."

"Who was next?"

"Next was, uh, Jasper. I had given him some chocolate milk – he apparently loved it – and then I found this key to a room... When I went in there, Jasper was on fire. He carved the number onto himself, and then he… Just died right there."

"So he was... Immolated? And there was no one else in the room, from what I got out of that... So he might have done it himself," she offered, and he nodded his agreement.

"Okay, then who?"

"Andrew. When I got there, he was in a prison cell. After turning some valves and making rooms move, he was freed, but... He was terrified. He... He ran off and when I found him again, he had been drowned. ... Well, it looked that way, but there was blood in the water. ... I guess from where Walter had carved the number, but I-I don't know. God, the room smelled terrible... And then my bathtub did too..."

"Your bathtub, back in 302? Why?"

"When I woke up, there was blood all over it," he answered, his voice starting to tremble. "It smelled so terrible..."

"... And the last person?" she asked hesitantly, pen hovering above her notepad.

"... Richard. Richard Braintree."

"Braintree?"

"Yes. He was a neighbor of mine. I went into his room and he was strapped into an electric chair... I tried to help him, but I nearly fried myself in the process. I couldn't get him free... So I had to watch him die. ... And after him, it was just me and Eileen," he said quickly. She noticed when he'd talked about trying to help him, he had tucked his left hand closer to himself. Kate assumed he had a mark there, or at least that was where he got burned. Still a very sensitive topic, but then again, why _wouldn't_ it be?

Then she processed the last part of his explanation. "... Who's Eileen? I thought you said there were only _four_ victims?"

"There were. Eileen and I survived, but Walter had put her in the hospital first."

"Why haven't you told me about Eileen? Is she still in the hospital or something?" she asked suspiciously, noticing he got a little uncomfortable upon mentioning her.

"No, last I heard, she was fine. ... She moved to Chicago about a month ago," he explained.

"Do you still keep in touch?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, that's good. So you and her were the lucky ones," she commented, eyeing him carefully and hoping he'd respond.

Sure enough, he made eye contact with her once again, something he was only prone to doing when he felt a surge of emotion (for him, anyway). Typically negative. "Lucky? ... Not hardly."

She nodded. "Do you feel guilty? Y'know, having survived when… Those four didn't?"

"... Yes, of course I do. I would think anyone would. I don't… I don't feel as guilty as I did right after it was all over. I just... Kept thinking that if I had done one or two little things differently, _maybe_ it wouldn't have ended the way it did: with four innocent people dead."

Kate put the cap back on her pen, crossing her legs. "I'll be honest with you, Henry. It's my personal opinion that life's full of those moments in time; very small snippets that we miss, and they impact our lives in the strangest ways – good or bad. … But things happened the way they did for a reason. And even if it _wasn't_ for a reason, it's already happened. Those people are already dead, and you're one of the survivors. Wrong place, wrong time. It's just the way things work. Only thing you can do is move past it and do your best to accept it."

He nodded. "... For the most part, I have. But now that the dreams are back..."

She raised her eyebrows as he trailed off before clearing her throat. "What exactly are these dreams about?"

Henry paled, looking even worse than when he'd been describing the victims' deaths. This time he looked almost… Afraid.

"... They're nightmares," he muttered.

"... Can you tell me what they're about? I know this is hard, I warned you that I'd have to ask tough questions," she added, making her voice as soothing as possible while putting her pen down for the moment.

"Well, sometimes I have dreams and other times I have them during... Y'know, the day. Sometimes with my eyes open. And they're very real-looking, very vivid," he explained lamely.

"So... Hallucinations?" she asked, making him sigh in defeat. He probably realized how crazy that sounded, but Kate was willing to take most of his claims at face value if it helped her get to the bottom of things.

"... Yes. Hallucinations."

"Okay. Tell me about the dreams first."

"Well, the dreams are usually about this... Really foggy town. I'll wake up in random spots, but it's always foggy. And... This one time, I woke up by a lake. I think it's Toluca Lake, so if that's the case, it's Silent Hill."

Kate perked up, looking back up at him. "Silent Hill? Three towns over?"

He nodded. "Yeah. ... You've been there, too?"

"My family used to live there, but we moved when I was real young. Wasn't old enough to remember it, just my brother always mentioning how much it sucked and that he was a New Yorker all the way," she said simply.

Henry chuckled – which took her by pleasant surprise, because she couldn't really remember ever hearing him come close to laughing in her presence. "I've taken a few photos there. The town itself was very... Peaceful the last time I saw it. Outside of my dreams, that is. ... But _inside_ my dreams, there's... Monsters again. Some of them I recognize, but the rest..."

_Oh, that's right. He mentioned monsters along with that hole in his wall, didn't he? ...Okay, that sounded bizarre even in my head._

"... And what about the hallucinations?" she asked, deciding to save the subject of monsters for another session.

"... They're all about Walter."

"What happens?"

"Well, sometimes he's chasing me – like he did back then. Other times, he... He just tortures me."

"Was that why you screamed like that a few days ago? You looked pretty shaken up," she added, the concern in her voice obvious.

He hesitantly nodded. "... Yes. He had cut my legs off while I was getting the MRI. And then you walked in, and... Never mind," he muttered.

"No, wait, I made a guest appearance in this hallucination? Is that what you're telling me?"

"N – Well, yes. You... You ran in after hearing me scream, and... He went after you too," he muttered in an even quieter voice than before.

"... He killed me. He cut your legs off, I ran in, and then he killed me," she stated in slight disbelief.

"... Well, he cut the second leg off _after_ he slit your throat, but –"

"He slit my throat? So I just laid there gurgling and twitching before becoming utterly motionless?" she clarified with a tone that suggested she was actually mildly offended by this sort of demise. He looked up at her with surprise.

"Y-Yes, that's exactly what you did! How did you know?"

"I'm a doctor, Henry, I know what happens when someone's throat is cut. Well... So you said Walter's always in them?" she asked, deciding sidestepping her appearance in this dream was the best course of action. Although she had to wonder if that stench – that heavy, offensive odor she had caught a whiff of upon running in to check on him… Was it really…?

"Yes. It's either him or the little boy version of him."

Her head shot up at that, making him jump a little. "Little boy?" she asked, and he nodded slowly in confirmation – now it was _his_ brows that began to furrow.

_That little boy..._

She'd been hearing doors slamming and a small pair of feet running around the building (mostly right past her door) ever since that night, and it was _really_ doing a number on her nerves. She'd been doing her best to leave work early to avoid the disturbances, but it generally did little good.

"Yes, there was a... Younger version of him I kept seeing. Whenever he showed up, it was almost always right before Walter claimed another victim," he explained carefully. "Except for when Richard was dying... The younger Walter was in the room with him, and suddenly he pointed to a window and just... Vanished. Into thin air. That's... How I knew Eileen was in trouble, just like the rest."

Kate felt a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. "What, er… What did he look like?"

"Uh... Dirty-blond hair, bright eyes... Striped shirt and grey pants, his hair's really short..."

_The boy...The one Norm couldn't see! No, no, that's just... Surely there're tons of boys with that description.  
><em>

She felt Henry staring at her as the blood drained from her face. "Doctor, are you alright?"

She waved him off with a laugh. "Fine, I'm fine! Just... Feelin' a little sick. Probably drank too much coffee on an empty stomach, that's all." Before anything else could be said, Melissa opened her door, making them both jump.

"Doctor Roberts, Mrs. Cox is here for her twelve-thirty," she announced, glancing at Henry before shutting the door.

They both stood up, and Kate flashed a smile. "We'll talk more about it next session, alright? Take it easy," she muttered, using her chair as an excuse to turn her back to him so he couldn't see the fear slowly inching its way onto her features.

"... Right. You too."

* * *

><p><em><strong>KNOCK-KNOCK.<strong>_

"Come on in," Kate called out distractedly, reading over Bob's file as she typically did in her free time; although it was true Henry Townshend occupied a great deal of her time, for obvious reasons, Bob was ever so enigmatic himself.

Melissa poked her head in. "I just wanted to tell you I was leaving early for the night. Everything's filed and scheduled like you asked."

Kate nodded, glancing up to smile at her. "Alright. Tomorrow?"

"Actually, I heard Denise might come back tomorrow, so... We'll see," she said cheerfully. Kate nodded again, and Melissa shut the door before suddenly opening it again. "I'd leave soon if I were you. Looks like there's finally an actual storm coming, it's horrible-looking outside."

"Yeah, I'm about to head home," Kate agreed.

"Do you want me to wait for you? I don't mind."

"No, it's alright. Go on home. You said your daughter had a game tonight, right? She needs you there more than I need you here."

"– Ah, right, you remembered... Thank you. Good thing it's indoors, by the look of that sky... Night, Doctor."

"Night. – Oh, and in case today was your last day… I'd _love_ to have you as a temp again."

Kate sighed once Melissa had gone, standing up and opening the blinds – pleased with the broad smile that had spread onto the blonde's features as she took her leave. She blinked in surprise; thanks to the parking lot lights, she could see the wind was strong enough to bend the trees a good deal, and it was sprinkling already. By the looks of things, it wouldn't be long before it started pouring.

After a few minutes – yes, minutes – of debating, she decided she'd rather go home and take a nice hot shower instead of camping out in her office for the night. Kate gathered her things before heading for the elevator, noticing with slight unease that she was once again among the last to leave the building. Her floor, at least, was pretty much deserted, a few offices with lights still on here and there.

She heard a door slam, reminding her of what Henry had mentioned about the little boy, and she started repeatedly pressing the down button.

Finally, the elevator arrived, and she sighed in relief as she practically jumped inside. She pressed the lobby's button before backing up and leaning against the back wall. "I am _so_ tired... Shit—!" she exclaimed after opening her eyes only to see the little boy in the far left corner of the elevator. "I-It's you again!" she accused, pointing at him. He jumped a little, and she winced. "Sorry. ... I hear you, you know. You keep running around and slamming doors, don't you?"

He just blinked at her, and she sighed. "Are you hanging around me 'cause I'm trying to help Henry? Is that it?"

He blinked again, but smiled a little. It looked pretty creepy, actually, but maybe it was just because she was very aware that she might be talking to a younger version of Walter Sullivan.

However _that_ made sense...

"Do you talk? ... Or are you just trying to _frustrate_ me," she asked, her voice gaining an edge to it.

He just stared at her. "I know who you are, you know. You're a younger version of Walter. _Aren't_ you?" This time, he moved closer. She backed up into the wall again, afraid despite herself. He grabbed hold of her coat's sleeve with one tiny hand, just staring up at her.

_That's_ when she lost it.

"What? **What**? Whadda you _**want**_ from me, huh?! Why are you doing all this? _You're_ the one making all those noises, I just know it! Do you have any idea how _scary_ that is in the middle of the night? What's keeping you here, and what do you want from _me_ of all people?!" she demanded to know.

He let go of her and backed away, looking fearful again as she glared down at him. The elevator doors opened, and she glanced over to see a random businessman step inside. She realized the elevator had stopped on the third floor, and when she turned back to where the little boy had been – surprise, surprise – he was gone again.

She let out a heavy sigh, making the man chuckle. "Long day for you too, huh?"

"You have no idea."

* * *

><p>Kate practically ran to her car, not liking the way that thunder was rumbling. The whole way home she was on edge, shaking a little. What <em>did<em> that kid want, anyways? Could it really, _possibly_ be Walter Sullivan from the past? "All _I_ know is that I need alcohol for this," she muttered, pulling into her complex and sighing with relief upon noticing the couple was nowhere to be seen – or heard, rather. She then noticed she was home earlier than usual, meaning she'd probably hear their bickering within minutes. "All the more reason to fix a good drink," she remarked with a heavy exhale, bounding up the stairs.

Kate unlocked her door, slamming it shut before locking it and taking off clothes as she headed for the bathroom. She turned on the water before grabbing a towel and hanging it across the shower curtain. … She then sighed exasperatedly upon realizing she'd hung up her bra instead of the towel, and replaced the one with the other before grabbing her sky blue robe from her room.

Kate took great pleasure in drinking a tall glass of coconut rum mixed generously with orange juice as she waited for the water to heat up, and was sad once it was gone. "_Bah_, you can always get more after your shower," she reminded herself, undeniably happy. She hadn't even _reached_ buzz-level yet, which she couldn't _wait_ to get to after the past few days. She bathed and shampooed, and had been about to run conditioner through her moderately tame locks when she heard thudding noises.

"... What the hell?" she wondered, conditioner forgotten. She strained to hear, hoping the couple hadn't already started fighting and getting physical with it.

No, this sounded like it was _inside_ her apartment.

Unnerved after already seeing the boy _again_ today, Kate immediately got out of the shower, leaving the water running in case there _was_ in fact an intruder. If there was, she didn't want them _aware_ that she was done with her shower. Kate dried her body off quickly, shoving stray, soaked locks out of her eyes as she hurriedly put her robe on – tying the sash as tight as possible.

Good God, she hoped she was just paranoid. Having her apartment broken into had always been one of her biggest fears, living alone in a moderately-active city; but come on, that had to be high on _everybody's_ list of fears. She slowly opened the door, relieved when it didn't creak.

She didn't see anything, nor did she hear the thumping anymore. In fact, there was utter silence to a deafening degree; it almost made her want to clear her throat, hum quietly, _anything_ to fill that **oppressive** silence. Still a bit frightened, she edged out into the hallway and to her room, grabbing the bat she housed under her bed for just such an occasion. She had just sat up on her knees after practically crawling under there for it when she saw the little boy on the other side of her bed, staring at her with wide eyes. Kate screamed, staggering to her feet. "Leave me _alone_!" she shouted, whirling around towards the door. While darting through the hallway, she froze dead in her tracks after noticing a figure in the bathroom.

A tall man in a long blood-spotted coat was walking towards the shower, and Kate's hand flew to her mouth as she resisted the urge to scream.

_No **fucking** way. No, this isn't real. That's __**not**__ who I think it is... What the hell am I still doing here? I've gotta get out of here...!_

He gripped the shower curtain, and she quietly crept down the hall for the door leading out of her apartment. She didn't get far when she heard the footsteps leaving the bathroom, and she broke into a run. Something – though it was pretty obvious what – grabbed her by the ankle, and she hit the ground hard. She flipped onto her back to see a man matching Henry's description of Walter dragging her towards him. "No! Leave me alone, both of you! Please don't, no! _**Get off me**_!" she screamed, kicking blindly, hands searching for anything she could use as a weapon.

Her bat had flown out of her reach when he'd grabbed her, so she settled for the next best thing – a bar stool. She threw it at his face, and he took the brunt of the force with his shoulder; she might as well have thrown a plastic cup at him. Kate screamed even louder, scratching at his arms and any other part of him she could reach as he and his knife enacted similar treatment. The stench of blood and some horrible underlying odor was overwhelming her, neither of those scents a result of her own injuries, increasing her fear and desperation – there was a ferocity to her screams and scratches that only fear of death could provide.

She landed a kick to his groin, and he went down just long enough for her to lurch back onto her feet, bolting for the door despite her stumbles. Kate fumbled with the lock and deadbolt, her screams unfiltered and bloodcurdling, crying out even sharper with relief when she finally got it open. The couple outside had stopped fighting temporarily, staring at her as if she were crazy.

"Don't just stand there! He fucking tried to _kill_ me!" she shouted, completely hysterical now.

"Estás loca," the Latino woman advised the man, who waved her off in an "I can handle this" sort of way.

"Uh, miss, there's... No one there," he said somewhat gently (which, considering her only basis for his name was "Filthy bastard" was quite surprising), pointing towards her apartment. _Are you on __**crack**__? That's all you can say? Even if you __**don't**__ see anyone, you should – ...  
><em>

Kate slowly turned around, seeing the same thing they did: an empty apartment, the door in the process of slowly swinging back into its resting position. The woman asked for her status in broken English, both she and her boyfriend finally taking notice of Kate's disheveled appearance and the welts forming along her hands, her arms, but the frightened doctor just slammed the door shut and backed towards the stairs.

"Should we call the cops?"

"I'll be fine. ... _Don't_ go in there," she said simply, running down the stairs and to her car. If Walter had been a hallucination, like the younger version, calling the cops wouldn't do much good.

It wasn't until she got there that she realized her car keys were inside, and she whimpered a little despite herself. _I can't go back in there... Either he wasn't real, or... He could've just hidden in a room or something, just waiting for me to come back. And even if he's none of the above, I... No... I... I can't be alone right now_, she thought miserably, trying her best not to start sobbing all over again.

The couple had resumed their stupid argument like nothing had happened, and Kate let one soft cry of exasperation escape as the bottom dropped out and rain came down in sheets. She needed to get somewhere, and fast. But without a car, her options were limited. She didn't feel like hunting down a bus stop, either. It occurred to her that Henry was the closest and most viable option, not to mention there was no question of whether or not he would be home at present; he himself had admitted to his reclusive tendencies. Then again, Kate supposed he was the only person she could _really_ go to anyway. No one else would believe her. Sure, she _could_ just say there was an intruder in her apartment that tried to kill her, but...

* * *

><p>She ignored the stares of a couple people milling around the apartment complex the same way she'd ignored the stares of passersby on the way here. If she remembered correctly – a miracle in itself, considering she could barely feel most of her body at the moment from the shock and exhaustion – Henry lived on the fourth floor, sixth door on the right.<p>

Not trusting an elevator, she bounded up the first flight of stairs, but beyond that it was all she could do to keep walking. Her bare feet stung with each step, and she nearly fell up the stairs after slipping in a particularly muddy puddle. Kate tried to walk her usual brisk pace to his door, re-tying her robe as she went, and more-or-less succeeded with both. She knocked three timid knocks on the door, suddenly feeling nervous. However, in the time it took for him to answer the door – she ended up knocking six more times, each more desperate than the last, though it probably only took about forty seconds for him to get there – she had grown more and more fearful as the reality finally sunk in:

She'd just been chased out of her own apartment by possible _hallucinations_ that had tried to _attack her._

And when Henry opened the door, she just completely lost whatever sense of composure she had left. Kate let out a strange noise caught between a sob and a sigh of relief, leaning into his frame with such force that he stumbled backward. "I didn't know where else to go, you were the closest within walking distance, and – oh _God_," she moaned, shaking with sobs.

"What the... _hell_? D-Doctor Roberts?" he exclaimed, obviously stunned. She nodded, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

"Y-Yeah. I... I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to – I don't... I can't..."

"What... What _happened_ to you?" he asked, standing there awkwardly as she continued to bury her face in his shoulder.

"My apartment. I saw him – both of him – them – whatever the hell he is, he was there–!"

"... Who? Did someone hurt you?" he asked, genuinely concerned now that the initial shock of her being there in the first place was out of his system.

"... It was Walter. I'm sure of it. He was so... He – you described him perfectly... Oh my God, he tried to _kill_ me, I didn't know where to go and my apartment was... and I... You were the closest," she repeated, sobbing even harder. Henry finally patted her back, about to wrap an arm around her when she finally got a hold of herself and pulled away.

"I-I'm sorry about that, I'm just really shaken up right now," she admitted, trying to stop crying. She hated when she was upset to the point of tears, as it took a great deal of effort for her to stop – and eventually the hiccups would come.

He nodded, directing her towards a couch. "It's alright. Sit down, I'll go get you a blanket or something."

Her whole body was shaking as she slowly sat down. "Tha... Thank you."

Henry made a beeline towards his room, still in disbelief. _Walter... __**attacked **__her? That makes no sense. What with the Sacraments over, she'd be of no use to him whatsoever. The __**hell**__ is going on here? _

He grabbed a spare blanket off his bed, slowly heading back to the emotional wreck that was his psychiatrist. _Is this some kind of mind trick? Is she trying to test me? ... No, there's no way. She's too stunned for this to be fake – that, or she deserves an Academy Award._

As if to prove his point, he was slightly unnerved now that he got a full look at her. She was utterly ragged and wide-eyed, her hair and robe disheveled with parts of the robe looking torn; what wasn't torn was clinging to her, both her body and the material soaked through and through. There were cuts of varying lengths, most of them tiny, on the tops of her hands and all over her legs, and her lower lip was swollen. There was a trickle of dried blood running from it, down her chin, but he could only assume much of the blood from her injuries had been washed off with the downpour. Her eyes were red and swollen, likely from all the crying. Not to mention her whole frame would jolt with her hiccups as she tried to remain as calm as possible, although the forced neutrality of her face only made her seem all the more shaken.

She most definitely didn't do all that herself, that much was obvious. Doctor Roberts glanced up at him as he came back within her view, and he handed her the blanket. "Here you go."

"Thank you," she muttered again, draping it around her shaking frame. That was another thing – she was trembling almost violently. Most definitely in shock.

"I... Don't want to upset you, but... Do you mind telling me what happened?" he asked carefully. She nodded as her gaze darted toward the ground, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was how he looked to her whenever she asked him the same exact question. Aside from the assault she'd taken, Henry imagined he looked as vulnerable and uncomfortable as she did.

"I-I was taking a shower when I heard these thudding noises, and... I got out to see what was making the noise. ... I didn't see anything, so I went to my room to grab a bat just in case, and... The little boy was in there. By my bed. I ra—I ran out and Walter was… He was in my bathroom, looking for me. I tried to get away, but he grabbed me by the ankle and I hit the floor and I..." she trailed off, shaking her head and whimpering a little.

"... I got away, but when I… But when I looked back inside, they were both gone," she concluded weakly, glancing at him before looking back down at the ground and wiping at her right eye.

Henry stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. "You... Mentioned a little boy. You've seen him before?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes. He was in my office building. He was running around, and I chased after him but... If what Norm said was true, no one else can see him. ... Oh God... I really _am_ hallucinating, and _I'm _the psychiatrist here...!" She suddenly looked up at him, and her expression was one of pure terror. "What the hell's happening?" she asked almost hysterically, breaking off into sobs again – and consequently turning her head to the side and muffling them into her arm as if embarrassed by the sounds.

Henry shot to his feet, wanting to do something to help but not knowing what to do. "Do you have... Any _relatives_ you need to call?"

She shook her head, managing to respond between gasps and hiccups. "No, my... My brother lives in Philly, and my parents are all the way across town. I... You were closest, and I left my car keys in the apartment. A-And what would I say? I just got fucking _attacked_ by a _hallucination_!" she exclaimed, burying her face in her hands.

Henry felt absolutely miserable on her behalf, not used to dealing with upset women – which was sort of ironic, considering all that had happened to him over the course of a few months. Even now, seeing her like this and hearing her recount the incident… He couldn't help but think of Eileen and her own encounter with Walter. Having seen her near death firsthand, Doctor Roberts was lucky to come out of it with mostly emotional injury – not that it diminished her understandable fear. He settled with squeezing her shoulder; that seemed to work, as it at least got her to look up at him and reach a slow stopping point in her sobs.

"You can stay here for the night. ... I'll go check your apartment tomorrow."

She smiled weakly at him, wiping at her eyes again before wincing and glancing down at herself. "Thanks, Henry. ... Damn. I thought I had gotten out of there without any damage," she muttered.

"... You should really go see a doctor to make sure that's the only damage you've got. I can take you right now, if you want."

She shook her head. "I-I'm fine, just... Really shaken up, more than anything. I'll go tomorrow."

"I can still take you," he suggested, and she nodded.

"I'd appreciate that."

"Do you, er... If... If you need some clothes to sleep in, you..."

She cut him off by smiling and nodding. "Thanks yet again. Clothes are probably a good idea, you're already looking flustered enough as it is," she commented.

_Well, looks like the shock's worn off a little_, he noted with relief at the return of her usual demeanor – not very sturdy, but it was there. All he did was nod and walk right back to his room. "I'll be right back, Doctor, just try and calm down some more."

She nodded again. "Kate. You can call me Kate, now that I've invited myself into your apartment," she insisted with a halfhearted laugh.

Henry couldn't help but feel even more relieved when he heard her sniffle and mutter "Where the hell does he keep the alcohol...? This is an emergency..."


	6. Bathwater

Kate took another swig of wine, continuing to stare up at the ceiling. She was exhausted, but couldn't bring herself to close her eyes for much longer than a minute.

Despite her best efforts in convincing herself otherwise, she was still afraid. This was a fear she had never before experienced; before Henry Townshend became her Eleven O'Clock, her biggest experience with fear had been over her credibility in college… A problem she had settled on her own terms, however shameful. This was far different: this was fear for her life, fear over a **killer** that lacked limitations.

Either her life or her sanity – or both – would be the casualty; hallucination or not, Walter was real enough to her mind's eye that she could cause herself, and others, serious harm in an attempt to evade him. Kate gave a precursory glance to her arms and legs, the scratches and cuts growing more agitated in appearance with each passing hour. Could she _really_ have done that to herself…? Hallucinations could be explained away by stress – or even more troubling, schizophrenia – but _physical_ evidence of this nature… Definitely not psychosomatic.

She made a face as she drank some more; she hated white wine, but these were desperate times. While Henry had gotten her some clothes, she had just groped in the fridge for the first bottle of liquor she could find, in too much of a need for alcohol in general to be picky about what type it was.

Kate glanced at the clock mounted just above his television set, squinting in the dark. If she was reading it right, it was around two in the morning. She had no idea she'd been laying there motionless for that long, and with a sigh she turned over on her side, hissing in a breath involuntarily as her cuts stung from the scratchy fabric of the couch. Just like she had in her younger days upon finding herself frightened in the middle of the night, she pulled the blanket up so it covered almost her entire face, leaving only a third of her vision exposed to Henry's apartment. Not that the apartment itself unnerved her – the mere notion that there was someone less than thirty feet away was comforting, even if she couldn't see them – but the numerous unknown variables in this entire situation were absolutely terrifying.

_There's no **way** I've gone crazy... Not just out of the blue like that. It's a gradual process, and you show symptoms prior to or along with actual hallucinations... And if I **were** crazy, why are Henry and I seeing the same things? But... What other explanation is there? Both the little boy and Walter __**disappeared**__ every time, and no one else sees them in the first place. ... If Walter really is alive, and he really is tormenting us... I'll thoroughly enjoy busting his ass. _

_No one_ made Kate Roberts feel this vulnerable – especially not in front of her patients – and got away with it.

She sighed heavily and turned on the television, putting it on mute so it wouldn't wake Henry up – goodness knows he needed the decent night's sleep. Having some sort of light in the room, however, was the only way _she'd _be getting some sleep of her own. She shifted yet again, tucking her arm under her head, wincing as her injuries once more whined and groaned in protest.

Kate wanted desperately to take a shower, but knew that was a bad idea. Whether she liked it or not, she knew the doctor would want to run tests on her to try and collect any possible specimens of DNA besides her own – Dateline NBC and an introductory criminology course in her undergrad years told her as much. Plus, her story would feel more and more, to her, like it had never occurred if she washed away the blood that bastard had drawn.

She sighed to herself, downing the rest of the bottle and setting it on the coffee table in front of her (her hand was swaying rather dangerously as she did so and it took her about three tries to actually get it _on_ the table).

_This is all just __**fucking**__ ridiculous. Why the hell is this happening, anyway? It's not as if Henry's condition, whatever it may be, is contagious. That goes against any and __**every**__ shred of logic, not to mention common knowledge. Mental conditions, with the exception of those that stem from viral or infectious afflictions, are __**not**__ able to be passed from one subject to another. It's just... Not... **P**__**ossible**__! But then... How...? _

She sighed yet again, staring blankly at the television as a sitcom re-run played on, presumably attempting to tell some lame joke that cued the laugh track. "Just... Get some sleep, Kate. Try thinking when you _haven't_ downed a ton of alcohol, and… You know. Faced death." And with that, she nodded to herself before continuing to stare at the screen until her eyes drooped closed.

* * *

><p>Henry awoke to the smell of blood and death; he was well accustomed to the smells by now, they were hard to forget once you encountered a great deal of it. Then he remembered what had happened earlier that night and shot into an upright position, looking around groggily as his vision adjusted.<p>

"The doctor..."

He looked around with slight alarm; the walls of his bedroom seemed... Rusty. Dead, even. Blood-stained. _Not again..._

Henry slowly rose to his feet; he was a bit wary of touching anything in the room, yet curious about what it felt like. He stretched out a hand to run against the wall, but stopped himself after remembering yet again that he wasn't the only one in the apartment; his priorities immediately shifted. Clamoring for the door as quickly as his stiff legs would allow, Henry attempted to ignore the foul odor that only grew stronger once the door was opened. "Doctor Roberts?" he called out quietly, almost afraid to draw anyone's – or anything's – attention to him. Henry rubbed his palm against his shirt from where he'd touched the grimy doorknob, heading straight for the door to his apartment. Only one thing was missing from this nightmare…

He sighed in relief; no chains blocking his way out this time.

"That's a good sign, I suppose. ...Doctor Roberts?" he called out, louder this time now that his nerves were a little less wracked with dread. Of course, he had taken his circumstances with relative neutrality before, but… This was the sort of fear that came with a recurring nightmare, or a horrible premonition that one had no choice but to play out. Not to mention he had been running on very little fuel by the time his horror began in Room 302, as his empty refrigerator had indicated.

Henry turned around after catching notice of a repetitive thumping noise, almost metallic in nature, thinking maybe he had just failed to notice her drinking the morning away on his couch. Surprise: she was nowhere to be found. He walked over to it for good measure, noticing with a frown that amidst the blood-stained carpet there was a darker, somewhat fresher-looking trail pooling on the couch and leading away from it. "What the... hell?" he wondered, slowly following the trail.

After all, he'd made much poorer judgment calls in the past year.

It led him to the bathroom, where the trail had begun to pool underneath the door. He felt his pulse begin to skyrocket, reaching a peak as he opened the door. Henry was immediately greeted with the sound of sloshing water, and he looked to his right to see his bathtub was overflowing. "The hell? Where is she?" he wondered, bending to turn the water off.

As he did so, the water rushing out of the faucet started to grow increasingly similar to blood – thick and dark and sickening in scent – until it spread throughout the bathtub, and he hurriedly turned the water off. He was just about to straighten his posture and continue his increasingly nightmarish search when a hand shot out of the water, grabbing him by the wrist. Henry struggled against the mangled, lacerated hand's grip, but found himself paralyzed with astonishment as a woman's head slowly surfaced from within the now murky water.

Her face was as cut and bruised as her hand, if not more so, and her hair was full of bloody clumps as familiar thick curls fanned out in the water.

"... Doctor...?"

She didn't respond, just stared at him. Something about her expression, the blank stare and almost glazed look in her icy hazel eyes, was more eerie and frightening than her gruesome appearance.

Suddenly she lunged at him with a scream, that blank expression contorting into one of rage and something that bordered maniacal as she pulled him under. He struggled blindly, kicking out against the rushing water, blood, and dirt that felt as if it were pushing down on him. Her hand was still on his neck, and she suddenly thrust him upwards. Pain exploded on his head, spreading from the base of his neck to engulf his skull as the faucet tore at his skin. He felt his eyes grow heavy, and he struggled even harder to keep what little wits he had at the moment about him, but it was to no avail. Sleep still tried to take him, and her hand squeezed even tighter against his throat, only increasing the burning in his lungs and ringing in his ears. Even eerier, there were no fits of laughter or screams from either of them – nothing said or shouted at all. Nothing to muffle his torment, his desperate attempts to reach the surface of that terrible water…

"_**Henry**_!"

He shot upright, his own splashing and kicking against the tub ringing in his ears. The doctor herself was standing next to his bed, which only startled him more and caused him to jump instinctively towards the other side of his bed – away from her, _far_ away.

She stared at him with obvious concern, brows furrowed and hands on her hips. "Another nightmare," she stated simply. He nodded, swallowing hard and trying to get his pulse to go back down as she crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. "I'd ask what happened, but something tells me you'll say something along the lines of 'I'd rather not talk about it'. From the looks of it, I wouldn't wanna talk either. So instead, I'll just attempt to cook something as my way of saying thank you for letting me stay – so you'll have no _choice_ but to be _so_ grateful that you tell me."

And with that, she strolled out and shut the door behind her. Not long after, he heard clanging that was quickly followed by a rather loud and furious "_**Shit**_, _who_ puts pans up like that—?"

Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he could just hide in his closet instead of facing... _that_. His doctor was a good person from what he could tell, sure, but often times he was… Simply at a loss of how to act around her; her demands in their sessions for more detail, more "syllables," didn't help at all. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy getting a reaction out of him, and yet other times she would regard him with such sincerity and empathy that he actually found himself relaxing and willing to comply with those "demands". After such an unnerving dream about none other than the doctor herself, the demeanor he'd at least grown relatively familiar with was… All the more unsettling.

Regardless, he'd grin and bear it; there were bigger problems afoot than a contrast of personalities.

He would instead begin the taxing process of getting dressed as if he had gotten excellent sleep, as if his life were still remotely close to normal – but this time, he would remain in his room long enough to place an overdue phone call. Henry had been debating it ever since the nightmares had begun, thinking that perhaps she was experiencing the same things and rather selfishly hoping she was. It would be a bit more comforting to know Eileen, someone familiar with this madness, was experiencing it with him once more. And after the hellish encounter the doctor had experienced the night before, one she had been lucky to escape without much more than flesh wounds… The urge to ensure Eileen was safe from all this was equally strong.

He waited for her to pick up, wincing as he heard more clanging and cursing from his kitchen.

"H-Hello?" she answered groggily, and Henry glanced at the clock. It was nine fifteen, not too early. Although, it _was_ a Saturday...

"Uh, hi Eileen. It's... Henry."

"Henry?" she repeated with a yawn before laughing. "You're calling _me_ this time? ... There's not anything _wrong_, is there?" she asked suddenly, her tone immediately becoming colored with worry.

"Well..."

"Henry, what's going on?" she more-or-less demanded, sounding completely awake now as he heard rustling on her end.

He sighed. "Nothing's wrong. I was just wondering about you lately… Have you been having, er… dreams? About... Walter?"

There was a pause, then more rustling. He couldn't help the twinge of guilt; she was much more sensitive about The Incident than he was, although Eileen was the one who insisted they call each other whenever they needed to assure one another about their ordeal. "Not lately, but–"

"But you had them?" he prompted, gripping the phone tighter in anticipation.

"... Of course I did. Henry, we can't just _walk away_ from something like that and _not_ have nightmares," she said gently, making his heart sink a little.

"Eileen, these aren't your average nightmares, these – I... I'm having hallucinations, too. And I keep seeing Silent Hill... You've heard of that town, right?"

"Of course I have, but— Wait, hallucinations? What do you _mean_ 'hallucinations'?" she asked, her tone gaining a sharp edge to it; it always did the more concerned she grew.

"You know... _Hallucinations_. I see him doing... Horrible things to me, almost like he's _taunting me_... And it feels real, but no one else sees him. If I weren't awake, it would be just like the nightmares, but… More vivid." He decided not to mention that his doctor was starting to experience the same things, since that would just lead to more questions he'd have to answer. Was it really that hard for her to just do as he'd hoped, admit she was having them and that he and Roberts weren't the only ones, and maybe even come to see him so they could work it out together?

"... Henry, do you think... That maybe you haven't really accepted what happened yet?" Eileen asked carefully, and his heart sunk even further; she was using her own form of Roberts' analytical tone, which just made him feel like he'd gained another psychiatrist.

He jumped after hearing said psychiatrist shout, "Henry – got any powdered sugar?!"

"What was that in the background?" Eileen wondered.

"Uh, nothing, just – Could you hold on for a minute?"

"Sure I will, but –"

Henry didn't hear the rest of whatever she said, holding the phone as far away from him as possible as he raised his voice to a slight degree: "Uh, no – no I don't!"

Granted he would normally go to her and talk at his normal quiet volume, but he was scared of losing Eileen's end of the phone as well as seeing _whatever_ sort of anarchy was taking place in his kitchen area.

"Goddammit, Henry, who eats French toast without powdered sugar? – Oh! Got any cinnamon?"

"... I… Don't know." When was the last time he went shopping for spice stuff in the first place?

"**Well**, if you _**did**_ have it, where would it be?!" she called out with a tone that suggested she found his answer _extremely_ unsatisfying.

Just like his mother.

Again.

"Most likely in one of the cabinets above the stove."

"And if it isn't there?! – Oh, wait, I found it. Thanks!" she shouted cheerfully, making him sigh again.

The neighbors were going to complain.

"Er, I... I'm sorry about that. What were you saying, Eileen?"

"Henry, do you have a _woman_ over?" she asked with a hint of a laugh, making him flush. _Why is that so funny to her?_ Henry wondered, outwardly deadpan over the entire change of topic.

He _could_ be charming. He brought flowers that one time –

"She was... Was... Having problems with her apartment last night," he muttered, knowing it sounded lame before it even left his mouth.

Much to his relief, Eileen left it alone. "That's… Very _neighborly_ of you, Henry." She cleared her throat to relieve some of the pressure to laugh, which just made him flush more. "So, about these hallucinations... Everyone deals with grief in their own way, you know. Maybe you just haven't properly dealt with the 'aftermath' yet," she suggested, and he winced at the accuracy of her analysis. Even so, he knew there was so much more to these dreams – and the thought of them somehow reaching her all the way in Illinois, causing her even more grief that she didn't deserve… It filled him with a different sort of fear than what he'd woken up with.

"So... Eileen, you _aren't_ having the same nightmares and hallucinations?"

"I'm sorry, Henry... No, not anymore. Want my advice?"

"... Yes."

"Try to find... Closure. I found mine in spending time with my family and visiting Richard's grave, seeing as I knew him before The Incident... That helped a lot. Maybe if you get yourself closure, the nightmares and hallucinations will start to go away," she said gently, and her reassuring tone managed to actually make him feel a little better.

"... Thank you, Eileen. I hope you're right."

"You're welcome. ... Henry, do you want me to come visit you?"

He wanted to kick himself for saying it, but knew it was the right thing to say, "No, not... Not yet. Maybe after I get that closure."

"If you're sure. But so help me, if I don't hear from you within the next week, I'm coming," she warned, and he found himself chuckling.

"I promise you'll hear from me... Thank you again," he repeated sincerely.

"You're welcome again. I'm here if you need to talk to me some more, Henry," she informed him, her tone implying that he do just that.

"I know... Goodbye, Eileen."

"Bye... Take care of yourself," she warned before hanging up, and he got the distinct feeling that her intuition told her something wasn't right.

_She couldn't be more right..._

Henry sighed heavily, already wishing he'd told her that a visit _was_ much overdue. No matter how much he wanted her to, Henry knew that he couldn't let her drag herself back to Ashfield until it was over and done. He was starting to wonder if Doctor Roberts having the same hallucinations, and even getting attacked by Walter, was something he passed on to her somehow. The last thing he wanted was to do the same to Eileen if she wasn't already suffering, no matter how much he wanted a familiar face – and a friend – to help him figure it all out.

"It's alive! It's… Alive!" came the triumphant cry of the doctor, a cackle soon following; he genuinely hoped that was _only_ a metaphor.

Henry slowly walked towards said kitchen, immensely surprised to see she was already cleaning up what little mess she'd made. He noticed she'd put longer pants on since earlier that morning, much to his relief; it had been a bit jarring to see this woman he hardly knew in not only one of his longer shirts, but his boxers as well. But what else was he supposed to do as far as giving her clothes went? She had nothing on but a robe when she'd ran to his apartment last night, and that in itself was a small miracle considering she had, by her account, been showering when the attack began.

He couldn't help but wince ever so slightly when she turned around to grin triumphantly at him; in his momentary panic this morning, he had been too busy convincing himself she wasn't the demonic corpse of his nightmares to notice her cuts and bruises looked worse. He was most definitely taking her to the doctor as soon as he could, but in the meantime, she seemed hellbent on this dish of hers. … Plus, he couldn't deny he was hungry.

"I swear I can cook, I just… _Choose_ to get takeout daily."

_Well, that's comforting_, he thought dryly as he cautiously cut a piece off the french toast with his fork before eating it. An audible sigh of relief soon followed upon realizing it was actually edible. Good, even.

After giving a small nod as his seal of approval – earning an "I'll take what I can get with you" from the young psychiatrist – he proceeded to eat and watch in silence as she continued to clean the kitchen. A glance upwards had him in deep thought; more specifically, pondering how she managed to get what looked like some sort of dough on his ceiling. Although it was admittedly amusing to watch her use a chair with several books as a stepping stone, along with the nearest counter for balance, to reach the ceiling.

His amusement turned into worry when her stretching to reach it not only caused her to hiss in pain, but brought his attention to a rather deep gash on the front of her right calf. It occurred to him that she hadn't even bathed or showered since the attack, and she was probably uncomfortable walking around with dried blood caked on her skin.

"Doct – ... Kate," he corrected, remembering what she'd said about her name last night. She glanced over at him, whacking the dough with a rag as best she could.

"Yeah?"

"Let me take you to the doctor now... Don't worry about that dough, it'll fall off eventually," he added as she pointed to said dough and opened her mouth to protest.

"Fine, fine," she muttered, giving the dough one more whack with the towel as Henry moved to help her down from her rather haphazard stepladder. The dough just barely missed his head as she grudgingly accepted his help, waiting by the door as he grabbed his keys and wallet.

"Well, this works out. You can tell me about that nightmare of yours while you take me," she suggested innocently as he opened the door for her, locking the door behind them.

"Still not the time."

"Well, it'll be later by the time we're on the way."


End file.
